Tempest
by katterpillar
Summary: All Ziva wanted was to survive and get the hell out of here. As always, Tony has other things in mind. TIVA
1. Before The Devil Knows You're Dead

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. I do have a dog called NCIS, but technically I stole him off my neighbour, so i don't think he belongs to me either. Dangit.**

**Rating: Varying degrees of PG-13 and M throughout the story. Survival themes, sexual innuendo, possibly and probably more. Also a few f-bombs scattered around, so i'll stick in 'language' as well. Don't say you weren't warned.**

**Pairings: Tiva**

**Spoilers: As we go. No** **spoilers in this chapter. Big fat 'N/A' right there.**

**Note: Following the running gag of Tony's vast film knowledge, every chapter is the name of either a movie, TV show, TV movie or some other sort of film-related title.  
(Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (2007))**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Jamésie Region, Nord-du-Quebec, Quebec, Canada

Bang. Tremble.  
The plane's wings were thrown up and down by the air currents, causing all three occupants to lurch violently into their seatbelts. Despite having some level of experience when it came to plane flight, Ziva couldn't help but feel cheated out of the comfort she'd assumed came with the territory.

This was a pressurized cabin, the air was clean and crisp and yet still she felt herself being thrashed about like a fish out of water. Turbulence be damned- she'd been in the middle of hard air currents before and it was nothing like this, like being smashed repeatedly up against the iron wall which was Tony's shoulder.

Tony gasped and thumbed the strap across his chest forward in order to allow himself some more breathing space. Every jerk of the plane pressed him hard against his seat belt, which was already too-tight and further restricted the passage of air through his lungs. Consternation and frustration welled in his gut with every subsequent jolt and Ziva's petite frame was surprisingly painful when pitched against his tensed flanks. She had more muscle mass than he gave her credit for, he decided silently amidst the chaos.

"Jesus, man! Fly your plane straight!"

The pilot resolutely kept his eyes on the sky for the moment, face stern, ignoring Tony's laments. Ziva supposed it was best- she would rather have a pilot concentrating than actually sympathising to her partner's whinging. Tony had a hereditary gift for distracting people and it was all too likely that the young senior agent would get his re-assurance, just to see the Cessna curling itself neatly around a street lamp.

"Don't worry, sir, it's just some turbulence. This storm is a little stronger than I anticipated."

"_A little stronger_?" replied Tony with a dry bark of a laugh, holding on tight as a particularly strong gust of wind caused the entire plane to jump and shudder.

And now he felt _so_ consoled; as if the word 'turbulence' was supposed to soothe his distress. It was the magic word amongst magisterial pilots piloting their own planes. He'd be better off rattling off something along the lines of 'hypoxia, nasal cannula, cabin depressurisation.'

_I don't give a damn about turbulence, You are flying in a goddamn cyclone, I've battled the pneumonic plague and my lungs are indefinitely scarred so you'd better drop your bumpy ass 1000 feet or so before I personally throttle you. A little stronger?_

"Like, _guns are a little deadly_?"

"Shut up, Tony," snapped Ziva tersely in response, fingernails biting into the seat as the plane's nose swung wildly to the left, then back to the right. Something in her tone hinted to the fact that he would face some dire consequences if he didn't shut his mouth and Tony was suddenly relieved that he'd gone with the snappy come-back rather than the angry monologue. _Three cheers for self control?_

Tony and Ziva had been dispatched to St. Pierre & Miquelon, a small group of islands just sitting off the Canadian coastline. In all technicalities, it was a part of the French European union, so Tony's jokes about Canadians really didn't hold any merit. They'd been following a lead on one of NCIS's most wanted, Elijah Jacob Ruffin, who was registered to a French fishing boat here. The man was wanted for something heinous; rape, desertion, murder, something like that, the usual. Tony could hardly even think about that right now.

As it happened, it had been a flop anyway. The man had flown back to Washington five days prior to their arrival, apparently because the captain of the fishing corporation had cut his pay to barely liveable wages. The bad thing about being an employed Fisherman, as Tony had mused to Ziva. It was always best to work by ones self in a profession like that. Not that life as a fisherman was particularly endearing, in any case.

As it was, Tony was a little disappointed he wouldn't get the satisfaction of ordering a big red cross to be placed over the man's ugly mug when they got back to Washington. He'd been getting sick of seeing that face sneering over at him from the 'Most Wanted' billboard all day.

NCIS's flight agents had booked tickets home from St. Johns through to Washington. But it was a tedious process and they'd have to catch a boat back to the mainland before they could even sneeze at an airline jet in the first place. And even when _that _happened, they'd need to fly en route through Montreal… Vancouver… Montana… Idaho… Hawaii… Australia… Jerusalem… Mount Olympus… god knows where, really. There were four or five stop-offs along the way and that in itself was enough to drive them both insane, no matter how many stale airline muffins they were force-fed or how many times Tony got to feel Ziva's ass against his knees as she shuffled past him in order to get to the aisle. As it happened, a strapping young Canadian pilot had offered them a flight express to Washington (for a fee) which would cut the trip by a significant margin. Idaho be damned; they'd both agreed wholeheartedly and mused smugly about Gibbs's reaction when they arrived back way ahead of schedule.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now, flying precariously through a thunderstorm in a flimsy piece of metal, those airline muffins seemed less stale and more delectable, and Tony could think of nothing better than Ziva shuffling past him on a nice, cool, pressurized, cloud-skimming jet airliner. They could be drinking Champagne, turning up their noses at the assortments of cheese and caviar, Or, thought Tony devilishly in the pits of his imagination, joining the 'mile high club' as it was so affectionately called by its patrons. He wasn't sure Ziva would be so open to that suggestion, though.

Bang! A flash of light in the air, uncomfortably close to the plane, caused their biggest tremor yet. There was a vicious creaking, like metal on metal, and the nose of the plane dipped wildly before correcting itself, narrowly avoiding a dive.

"Jesus christ!" yelled Tony once again, lurching against his belt and correcting himself in his seat. He couldn't see through the sleet on the windscreen, and the pilot was squinting out the window with what looked like great difficulty. That wasn't very reassuring. Where was the man's GPS? Why was it so dark? Why on earth had they agreed on flying across two countries in a freaking Cessna?

"If we don't die on this flight," said Ziva over the noise of the storm, "I will kill you!"

At first Tony thought she was speaking to the pilot and grinned malignantly before he realised that her eyes were locked on him. He grimaced unpleasantly. He had enough on his plate than to deal with Ziva's megalomaniacal homicide tendancies. Hopefully she had no paperclips handy.

"_Me_? What did I do?"

"You were the one who agreed to put us on this hell-bent plane!"

"Excuse me? If I recall, it was a mutual agreement, Ziva!"

Ziva wasn't listening. Her eyes widened, staring at something ahead of her.

Tony followed her line of sight and saw a dark shape looming sharply out of the rain. It took a moment for the pilot to react- he hit the controls sharply and banked to the left. The nose turned on an angle but it was too late- the sound of metal compacted wood and the plane jolted, the noise of ripping rending the already noisy air. The exterior of the plane peeled back and there was a cry of pain from the pilot as wood protruded sharply into the forefront of the plane and forced the panel back. Tony brought his arms up to protect his face and instinctively leaned to the right, protecting the left side of Ziva's body.

By the time he'd realised it was a tree, the plane was already curled around it.

Tony was flung violently against the strap that was holding him in place and coughed sporadically. He felt odd, suspended, as if he were in an awkward position in the air. His head was suddenly immensely heavy and his legs flopped horizontally forward. After a moment he realised that the Cessna had angled itself downwards and that he was being held in by his seatbelt. He coughed again- it was immensely hard on his lungs, as if his ribs were being compacted by his own weight.

A moan from his right side alerted him to Ziva rousing herself, blinking drowsily and straining against her seatbelt, slowly and daintily as if making sure she weren't injured. Tony's throat was dry with driving, uncontrollable apprehension. _Apprehension? _What was he kidding; it was fear, the sort of fear he hadn't felt for a long while, the fear of the unknown, something he could not control. It was the same fear that Kate had pointed out long ago when he'd been lying in that hospital bed, staring blankly at blank walls, coughing up blood, slowly dying. She'd been right then. Tony had never found the balls to admit it to her. Eventually Ziva's voice interrupted his reverie, dulcet and throaty as if she'd just woken from a deep slumber.

"Tony. Are you alright?"

Was he alright? Hah. He paused a moment to assess his own condition, despite himself. The plane had veered to the left, so the right side of the plane had been most affected. He was seated on the left. Apart from the bruising on his chest and legs from the crash, he didn't feel particularly worse for wear.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Uh," Tony watched Ziva pause and wiggle insecurely in her seat, "Trapped. My ankle is caught between the wall and my seat. And my ribs are hurting. But otherwise… fine. More than I can say for our friend up the front there." She inclined her head to the front of the Cessna. Their Canadian man was well and truly screwed- dead, as far as Tony could tell. That assumption was stomped on wholeheartedly a moment later when a gurgle from the front of the Cessna stopped their interlude. The pilot wriggled, shifting futilely in his seat. Tony held his breath and winced for him. His legs were mangled amongst the foot pedals, the bottom half of his body pinned securely by the plane controls. He was bleeding heavily from his torso. The yoke was lodged somewhere up in near his ribs, pressing down on his sternum, and the throttle was pinning one of his calves down on the rudder pedals.

"Oh, god. Oh fuck, it hurts," moaned the man, his voice catching in his throat.

Tony's heart leapt in sympathy for the main and he gingerly felt down to his seatbelt, unclicking it, and holding on to dear life to the back of his seat so he didn't go falling forward through the windshield. He wasn't one for pity, or even compassion. He often found that when he let himself go emotionally in a case, he ended up being trampled on significantly if things went awry. A tendril of thought went out to Ziva and Lt. Roy Sanders, and with it an ounce of compassion.

Tony edged forward, fingers cold but clamped tightly onto the metal bar above the injured man's seat.

"Hey, man," said Tony, holding onto the pilot's seat and sliding down the slope towards him. "Are you alright?"

He knew as soon as he'd said it that it was a stupid, redundant question. Still, the man laughed and coughed weakly. Blood welled in his mouth and he coughed again as it dripped down his chin.

"I'm fucked, son. Kill me, god. Please. Shoot me."

"Don't be an idiot," said Tony, though it was evident to all that there was no hope for him. He was dying, slowly, and intensely, with a great deal of pain involved. The best doctors in the world could not help him. "Where is the first aid kit?"

"Un.. Under my seat. But… god, you can't help me. Kill me… mate."

"Listen to me," said Tony, his voice beginning to take on an authoritative tone. "Close your eyes and relax, okay? _Breathe_. I'm going to get you some Valium, Morphine."

The pilot closed his eyes tight, occasionally whimpering in agony, occasionally coughing blood up onto his T-shirt, arms trembling.

Tony made no moved to get the First Aid kit. Ziva watched as he slowly and silently drew his gun from it's holster at his belt. Tony took a brief look at the SIG's magazine- this was his last bullet, but it would be a bullet well spent. He thumbed back the hammer and, coughing sharply to cover up the sound of the firing pin, slid it into place.

He brought the SIG Sauer up, while the man had his eyes closed in ignorance, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the enclosed plane and Ziva closed her eyes as the blood blowed back onto her torso from the bullet now lodged in the man's head.

"That was noble, Tony," she said a moment later, as Tony grimly replaced the gun at his holster. It would have been a most horrible way for him to die, writhing in agony, or worse, watching as a strange man shot him out of mercy. The pilot hadn't anticipated the gunshot. His death had been quick and relatively painless.

"Now, please, help me out of this seat. I am caught."

Tony turned away from the man's blissfully lifeless form and felt his way over to Ziva, who was looking pale and ill suspended against her seatbelt. The plane was creaking against the tree's boughs. Even a light plane like the Cessna had a significant amount of weight to it and he wouldn't be surprised if it went crashing through the wood to the ground. It would ignite and send them up in flames, if the plane hadn't already been set alight.

Tony had taken a survival course on his inception into Baltimore, but his brain couldn't really bring up vivid memories. He did recall, however, something about the dangers of hanging upside down. Blood pressure to the brain could kill you.

Tony grabbed hold of the steel bar underneath Ziva's chair and braced himself against the slope. Her foot was pinned diagonally against the metal wall and her metal seat. Tony pushed down the adjusting lever and peered up at Ziva's pale face.

"Brace yourself, okay? I'm going to push your seat back."

Ziva nodded and grabbed a hold of the cushioned sides of the seat.

Tony pressed down the bar and heaved back her seat. Ziva let out the slightest strangled mew of pain as her ankle was grinded briefly against steel, before the chair rolled away from it. She kicked away from the wall, sighing in relief.

"Thank you, Tony."

Ziva unbuckled her seatbelt and staggered out of her seat, underestimating the slope. She tripped as she attempted to find her balance and went sailing gracefully backwards towards the cockpit. Tony caught her by the waist with one arm and hauled her back, holding on to the back of her seat in order to keep them there.

Ziva winced as his arm tightened against her bruised ribs but was thankful of his assistance. She smiled gratefully, the colour beginning to return to her face.

"We need to get out of here," said Tony briskly as he steadied himself, taking a tentative step towards the gaping hole created on the left side of the plane.

His weight disturbed the Cessna's already precarious balance. There was a prolonged creak and an abrupt snap. The plane turned slightly, angled into the gale, and a shrill whistle of driving wind sounded through the opening. Both of them stumbled unsteadily as the plane bowed slowly downwards, until they were practically vertical and dangling from Tony's grip on the chair. Then it continued forward and downward, and with a peculiar feeling of freefalling through the air, the plane turned completely upside down until the floor became the ceiling.

They both dropped and landed on the ceiling of the Cessna, on their feet. There was an odd feeling of solidarity as if the nose of the plane had touched the ground. Feeling steadied, Tony regained his balance and stood straight, tilting his head towards the opening in the plane's metal frame.

"Wait a moment," said Ziva, reaching upwards and feeling awkwardly on the underside of the pilot's seat. With a flourish, she pulled out the Survival & First Aid kit that was secured on the bottom of the cushioning.

"Yahtzee," she said grimly with a sombre sort of smile, before carefully edging after Tony.

Another sudden jolt of the plane caused Ziva to stumble forward into the open air and Tony followed suit. Ziva took a few steps forward away from the plane before her gut began to churn. Something was horribly wrong.

_No, it couldn't be…_

Tony stepped out of the wreckage after her and she could hear his breath slowly released in a horrified exhale.

"Oh, hell."

It was all snow. Miles and miles of rolling, unblemished snow. The sleet which had been so prevalent higher in the atmosphere while they were flying was clearly not as liquid as they'd presumed. The blizzard was still wailing through the air and the snow was settling on their head and shoulders. Ziva was already shivering, teeth clicking together as a result of the plummeting temperatures.

"Maybe…" Ziva paused a moment, shivering violently, usually tanned skin suddenly looking rather pasty in the cold. "…Maybe we should to stay inside the plane, for a while. I am wearing heels, and I do not fantasy frostbite."

"_Fancy _frostbite, Ziva," corrected Tony, though without his usual relish. He had crossed his arms too, and was staring out across the endless expanse of white. They'd been able to see towards the horizon before, but now the blizzard was picking up strength. Even the plane, mere metres away from them, was difficult to see. Soon they would be stuck in a complete white-out, which was deadly, dressed as they were.

Tony nodded after a moment and stepped towards the plane. Ziva looked satisfied and stepped after him, but faltered. Her injured ankle gave way and she half-collapsed into the snow, catching herself with her forearms and good leg before straightening up again, a faint grimace evident on her face.

She didn't realise Tony was there until she could feel his arm snaking around her waist and holding her up, and his concerned green eyes swimming into view. In comparison to her freezing skin, his hands were like a warm fire and she gratefully pressed herself into his warmth.

"Holy cow, Ziva. You're as cold as ice."

Tony shuddered, because of how cold she was, and how close she was. Even in the middle of a crisis like this, he couldn't help but think liberally with his 'downstairs brain.' It might be cold and uncomfortable, but she was still utterly female, beautiful, and pressed up against him. Mmmm. But considering the circumstances…

Tony briskly shook away his looming libido and assisted her as she stepped back into the crashed Cessna.

It was still cold in here, but nothing in comparison to what it was outside. The engines were still hot and their shared body head didn't take long to significantly warm up the cabin.

"I wonder if this plane has a radio," said Ziva speculatively, staring into the upside-down cockpit. Neither of them could look at the mangled pilot still hanging dead in the front seat. It was a horrible reminder of how mortal they really were.

"Mmmm," said Tony, tilting his head in response, venturing slowly towards the controls. "Good thinking, ninety-nine. If this plane has a transponder, we might be able to call in with a mayday."

"The pilot made no effort to radar in during the blizzard. A transponder? I highly doubt it."

"It's worth the look," he replied in his grumbling bass-baritone as he searched around the controls for anything resembling an XPDR. Ziva was right, though- his search yielded nothing.

"I told you," she purred in his ear, making him jump and curse under his breath. He _hated_ it when she did that.

"So; no radar," said Tony with an indignant huff, leaning back and placing hands on either side of his waist, tired and sore and hoping desperately for an answer. "_But!_ I spy a radio."

Ziva followed his line of sight to a small black box below the cracked, battered pilot's seat. It had been pushed forward on impact, and now was looking oddly protuberant, poking into the cockpit.

Ziva reached up and hit the 'on' control.

To their delight, there was the faint flicker of green on the screen as nonsensical numbers flicked up on the screen. Then there was the buzz of static and then nothing- no voices, no heavenly choirs. But at least they had a radio.

Ziva reached up and played with the knob, searching for a frequency where she'd be able to hear other people. Nothing.

She hit the transmission button.

"This is Special Agent Ziva David, calling in with a mayday."

Nothing. Just the persistent buzz of static.

"I'm calling from an unknown location, we have a… Cessna 340 which has crashed, one fatality."

Again nothing, and the noise of the static was grating on Tony's nerves. Ziva twiddled with the receptor on the radio and tried again.

"This is NCIS Special Agent Ziva David, we have a crashed plane in a blizzard, two injuries, one fatality."

Again nothing, and this time Ziva seemed to give up. She huffed exasperatedly and gave the radio a curt smack, before turning and prowling away.

"The blizzard is interfering with the reception. We can try afterwards."

Ziva rubbed her own arms and huffed. Tony could see she was shivering.

And no wonder. She was wearing a halterneck dress, and heels. Good god.

"Go put some clothes on, Ziva," hissed Tony, taking note of the goosebumps across her neck. He moved away from the cockpit, resolutely refusing to look at the pilot.

Ziva seemed to be thinking along the same lines and moved past their seats towards the tail end of the plane, where their luggage was stored.

Tony watched as she hauled out her suitcase and propped it on one of the seats, unclipping the latches and pushing it open.

A whole assortment of goodies met his eyes and he slunk closer like a wayward hyena, drinking it all in, wide-eyed. Boylegs, pantyhose, skimpy-cut, Elle Macpherson… Ooh! Was that Victoria's Secret?

"Tony!"

He was snapped out of his unabashed underwear-perving by Ziva, who was staring coldly at him. He stiffened and took a step back with a sheepish grin.

"You're… You, ahh, are going to get dressed. Right. Yeah. I'll turn around."

With a self-gratified smirk, he slunk away and sank down onto the floor near the nose of the plane, listening as she dressed herself. The only thing that indulged his fantasies was the 'snap' of bra underwire snapping apart, which meant she was now totally naked behind him. Oooh, hah! He wondered how she'd react if he made up some very important excuse to turn around right now? He could inexplicably catch a whiff of spilling petrol, or say he heard a fuse ignite... hey, they were perfectly logical pardons, particularly if he saved their ass from not-so-spontaneous combustion...

Tony shook his head, trying to get those images out of his soiled imagination. Surely every man had those same fantasies. They were inexplicable, creeping up on Tony when he least suspected it. But it wasn't his fault. Sex was like an abyss, dark and warm and safe and nice and… meaningless. He did have to admit. Perversion was every man's secret indulgence. Maybe if there was any beauty in life, it was in the climbing out.

A scathing voice in the pits of his mind said '_oooh… deep, Tony_.'

...Hnm..

…_What was he thinking?_ Feeling slightly emasculated, he promptly went back to picturing Ziva naked, eyes closed tight and a strange expression of satiety on his face.

"Alright, Tony. I'm done."

Already? Tony got to his feet and turned around.

Ziva was now decked out in winter regalia. She had a weatherproof jacket over the top and he could see several layers of sweaters underneath, along with her trademark trousers and scuffed boots.

Ziva tossed Tony his wool-lined winter jacket. "I brought out yours, also."

Tony caught it in one hand and gratefully pulled it over his grey sweater. "Thanks."

"You are welcome. In the meantime; do you have your gun?"

"Yeah, but I'm out of ammo."

Ziva sighed wearily and brought a hand through her luscious dark hair, massaging her temples. "As am I."

"I doubt we would need our guns right now, Ziva. All the bears are hibernating and whatnot."

"Bears are not the only predator in existence, Tony."

Bang. There was a sharp ripping noise and the 'crack' of metal colliding with the ground outside. Neither of them needed to look- they both knew the half-mangled left wing of the Cessna had just fallen off.

The weight of the Cessna now was resting entirely of the nose and the plane creaked ominously under its own weight.

"Shiiiit!" said Tony, making a mad dash for the opening in the plane's ripped body.

"Ziva! Get out, _get out_, _now_!"

Ziva didn't need to be told twice. She ran after him as fast as her injured ankle would allow, the survival kit still clenched in her fingers.

She literally leapt out of the plane, freefalling towards the snow outside. She landed on her back, feet losing purchase on the cold, wet ground. The snow was oozing through her fingers and though she tried in vain to get back on her feet, her injured ankle stopped her and she had no time to get herself in a position where she could scramble away. Desperate, she pushed herself backwards with her raw hands, breath heavy on the stale air. Tony stumbled past her and turned sharply, instinctively coming to her aid. Ziva tried valiantly to get to her knees.

No time. Without hesitation, Tony seized her arm and heaved her backward, muscles contracting violently in his arms. Ziva felt light, even puny, in his grip. He hardly grunted while taking the entirety of her weight onto his own arms.  
For the first time in a long while, Ziva appreciated Tony's brute strength. He handled her as if she were a ragdoll.

A moment later, the tail of the Cessna, suspended in the air, went crashing to the ground.  
Three things happened simultaneously. The first was the tail hitting the ground with a resounding 'bang,' loud enough to send a tremor through the snow and shake them both where they crouched. The second was the fire that immediately ignited in the Cessna, and burnt furiously for a few moments before it brushed the plane's half-filled petrol tank, and there was a tremendous roaring noise as a minor explosion went off, engulfing the plane in a red-hot flame and twisting the metal around as if it were made of playdough.

The third thing, and the most horrible, was Ziva realising that they were now without spare clothes, shelter, weaponry, radio, or hope. They were stranded in the snow, already shivering violently, and nobody knew there they were. There was barely any chances of survival for two inexperienced idealists stuck in the wilderness in the frost. This place was secluded, bare, cold, brutal, and while savagery was one of Ziva's strong points, Mother Nature was an adversary she had yet to conquer. She could hear by Tony's broken exhale that he was thinking the exact same thing.

"Well," said Tony quietly but poignantly as they watched the plane burning, the flames lighting up the surrounding snow as wind continued to batter them and the blizzard coated them in wave after wave of whiteness.

"…We're pretty fucked."


	2. There's No Sex Like Snow Sex

**Warnings: Not much. Pretty tame language. Survival themes. Innuendo. **

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thankyou a million for the reviews. I can't write without them. Every review gives me incentive to write quicker. So thank you. Also; there was some research involved in this, so let me know if it's wrong. Israeli weather patterns. Info on the Cessna was sourced. And I work at Boost Juice so I'm pretty sure I got that right hah. **

**Also, because ive been asked this in other fics, MCR means Major Case Response, which is Gibbs' team. So if you see me write the NCIS MCR team, it means 'naval criminal investiagative service major case response' team… you probably know this. I just get tired of people asking why I keep talking 'bout My Chemical Romance.**

**Also, there's a plot arc to come. It's not a survival and cliché plane rescue story. Relax. Review. I love you all.**

**Chapter Title: There's No Sex Like Snow Sex (1974) very funny German comedy. Go see it, it's a good laugh.**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_**Washington Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, U.S.A**_

"What do you _mean_ nothing on the menu has _caffeine_ in it!?"

It was early morning, and anticipation had been hanging over the heads of the NCIS MCR agents since 0700 (though that was heavily denied, if even acknowledged by McGee and Gibbs.) Abby was irate. That was an oddity in itself, because McGee very rarely saw Abby in a temper, and when he did, it was generally pretty tame. He'd seen her pretty wound up once or twice, but never really in a fury. She was generally mellow when temper was concerned, but when her fuse was set alight, there was no stopping her wrath. Once, her very short-lived laboratory assistant had attempted to frame DiNozzo for murder, and tried to incapacitate Abby herself. When they'd found him, he'd been tightly bound with Teflon ropes and gagged and was writhing awkwardly on floor, in Abby's weary wake.

Ding! _United 132 flight from Denver has arrived at Gate B50. _The overly placid sound of the female attendant's voice drifted over the P.A as it had been for the last hour, constantly announcing the arriving planes.

…Another time, after yo-yoing from being semi-depressive to terrified to overly resilient when being stalked by an obsessive ex-boyfriend, she'd been kidnapped. That had been a moment of terror for Gibbs and the team; they'd thought for a minute that things were going to be touch-and-go for Abby but when they found her, she was standing splay-legged at the open door of the kidnapper's van, screaming indignantly and tazering the living shit out of the man, who was squealing and wriggling like a stuck pig on the gravel. Gibbs had thought it was so funny, he'd let her tazer him for a few more minutes before finally stopping her and detaining the kidnapper.

But now, watching the technogothic forensics specialists crowing indignantly at the top of her lungs at an intimidated teenage girl, McGee couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive.

"We, uh, don't sell any caffeinated drinks, ma'am," said the flustered brunette, gnawing on her lip and playing with her bandana. Today, _Boost Juice_ was on the receiving end of Abby's frustrations.

"Well, give me something else, then_. Something with a kick in it._ Really. I'm tired, and I refuse to stoop to the level of _Starbucks_ or _Coca-Cola."_

"We could put some Energizer supplement in a smoothie, ma'am."

"Don't call me _ma'am!" _growled Abby, eyes flashing dangerously. The girl shrunk behind the cash register for a moment, thoroughly distressed, before punching something into the register.

"One original '_Energy Lift' _with extra supplement. Please, uuuhhh, wait near the blenders."

Gibbs could only smile sombrely while their marauding forensics specialist lurked around near the blenders, muttering to herself. She'd searched the airport high and low for any vending machine that might sell a Caff-Pow, a caffeinated fruit juice, an alternative sugary soft drink, anything. But every time they came across anything that suited the criteria, she'd dismissed it immediately.

"Here you go," said the same young brunette girl at the blenders, gingerly handing out the smoothie which Abby snatched from her hands with scarcely a mutter.

Ding! _TACA International 590 flight from San Salvador has arrived at Gate IAB._

In all truth, it had been a trying few weeks for all of them. They were an agent down, with Lee standing in for Ziva, and McGee taking over as Senior Field Agent, at least for the short time while the other two agents were operating in St. Pierre. The workload had been tough without Tony's experience and Ziva's intuition and McGee had found himself instinctively lifting his game to the best of his ability. Having to speak as an authority and make on-the-spot decisions had been difficult for him, but it had been a learning curb and even Gibbs had given him the briefest pat-on-the-back yesterday, along with a curt 'Good job, Tim.'

_Tim_. Gibbs _never_ called him 'Tim.' McGee had long since accepted it as a one-off.

A few days prior, Gibb had received a brief message from Tony, from Miquelon, sent via satellite phone.

'_Boss. received intel that Ruffin flew to DC 5 days back. cancel flight plans. Flying express to DC tomorrow in private plane. Aui revoir. DiNozzo.'_

Gibbs, without delay, had messaged him back without any pleasantries about it.

'_Don't even think about it. Payment for plane tickets has been processed. No private planes. Will be picking up at Dulles as scheduled. Gibbs.'_

Tony had never messaged back, but Gibbs didn't really think about it much. It wasn't a message that needed answering. If they'd taken the private plane back, they'd have been back by now, so Gibbs could only assume they were on the jet liner.

However, the moment he'd entered the airport, a strange feeling had settled in his gut. It wasn't apprehension, or fear, or anxiety, just… a persistent foreboding. And if there was anybody who had unwavering belief in the infamous 'gut,' it was Gibbs. He'd made the decision to check with the authorities in Canada, just as a precaution, before they'd even put a foot in the terminal.

Ding! _United 7101 flight from Cleveland has arrived at Gate A3._

"Here is their gate," said McGee warily, checking the 'arrivals and departures' pamphlet clutched in his hands and shooting a precautionary glance up at the label above the terminal gate. He'd even highlighted Tony and Ziva's flight, thought Abby with a wry grin. Bless his little organized soul.

"Yep… Yeah. This is it. Gate '_H8_,'" confirmed McGee with a satisfied smile.

"Good," said Gibbs promptly, taking a seat near the gate. Tourists of various nationalities drifted past and watched them curiously- Abby in particular. But then, that was nothing new. Decked out in tattoos, black-red clothing, a dog collar and heavy eye makeup, Abby was a sight to behold, and at a domineering 5'10 she wasn't hard to miss. With platforms, she could reach 6'2 without any difficulties whatsoever. She was the antitypical goth- dressing as most would and yet bouncing around in pigtails chuckling ruefully and drinking colourful sodas. She attracted attention wherever she went and some people weren't so discreet with their fascination.

"Where is the flight arriving from again?" asked Abby absently, still sucking away at her smoothie straw, unaware of the stares she was getting. The drink must have been satisfactory, because for the moment she was relatively content.

"Minneapolis," replied McGee with another quick glance to his pamphlet, where he'd scrawled Tony and Ziva's flightplan. Not because of any real need, just to make a personal note for himself, and to humour Abby and her instinctive need to know unimportant details. He knew she'd ask for the stopovers. She always did.

"Stopovers?" asked Abby, taking a moment off chewing on her straw to ask the question before commencing the gnawing. Right on queue.

"They took a boat from Miquelon to Newfoundland, plane from St. Johns to Montreal, Montreal to Cleveland, Cleveland to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to D.C."

"That's one hell of a flight plan," mused Abby with slightly raised brows. She jiggled her smoothie cup persistently, tapping it until the ice on the bottom evened out before commencing to suck it up. She wasn't one to waste precious… highly-supplemented health drinks. It felt odd not to refer to it as 'caffeine' in her mind.

Ding! _Jet Blue 500 flight from Long Beach has arrived at Gate B32._

"Long Beach," mused Abby reminiscently, trailing her straw around her smoothie cup. Her attention wandered she stared out the window, misty-eyed. A Singapore Airlines flight was taxiing across the runway and she watched with vague fascination as it gracefully bore it's bulk onto the wings and soared extravagantly into the air, briefly throwing a gargantuan shadow before disappearing off into the sky. "Always wanted to go there… L.A, California, Laguna Beach, Orange County, the whole shi-bang."

"What're you doing, boss?" asked McGee, his attention drawn to Gibbs, who had his cell phone pressed to his ear, the sound of ringing almost audible, even in the busy terminal.

"Making a call," replied the grey-haired marauder with a no-nonsense tone, shooting the younger agent a disparaging glance for asking such a horribly obvious question.

"_Bonjour. Bienvenue à l'Aéroport de Montréal-Trudeau. Vous parlez de Cassandra."_

Quebec. Montreal… of course. The primary language was French, there. Maybe he took Canadians for granted. Gibbs could speak tangibly in the French language, but only because of the undercover work he'd done in Montreal with Jenny so long ago. He wouldn't want to put too much pressure on his knowledge of the language.

"Bonjour. Could I please speak to an English speaking attendant? Er… Accompagnateur parlant Anglais? S'il vous plait?"

"_Of course, mon seigneur. How can I help you?" _replied the obviously bilingual attendant with the typical husky French purr. Gibbs smiled faintly in gratitude for Montreal's very fine language barriers.

"Yes. Special Agent Gibbs speaking. I'm just checking up on two NCIS agents who should have flown en route through Montreal earlier. They should be on a plane from Minneapolis to D.C at the moment."

"_Oui, Monsieur Gibbs. Names?"_

"Anthony DiNozzo, spelt D-I-N-O-Z-Z-O, and Ziva David." He pronounced Ziva's last name like 'David' rather than 'Dah-veed,' just to avoid the redundant rigmarole of having to spell it out for her.

There was a brief pause as the sound of the woman's rapid typing carried over the receiver. Gibbs waited and watched the 'arrivals and departures' board with unseeing eyes.

"_Monsieur, your agents did not board their flight to Cleveland, nor did they board their plane from St. Johns to Montreal-Trudeau. I am afraid they have not yet set foot here."_

Gibbs was silent, the cell phone pressed to his ear, listening to the incessant buzz of the airport traffic. Funny that he hardly heard it until the moment when he could think of listening to nothing else. He'd known it, of course, to a degree, in his stomach. Not necessarily that they hadn't boarded the plane- just that something was wrong. Something was amiss. When a member of his team was compromised, he was the first to know, simply out of his own gut intuition. Uncanny things never passed Gibbs by. Even when in Mexico, miles and miles away from his former Emergency Case Response team, he'd still had that unsettled feeling deep in his belly which manifested itself in the form of Ziva's desperate phone call.

"… _Monsieur Gibbs? Are you still there? Où êtes-vous allé?"_

Gibbs was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of the woman's voice still piping at him from the other end of the phone. His blue eyes zoomed back into focus and he swallowed the sourness that had suddenly settled in his throat, his voice rising in a low growl. His reply was short and sweet.

"Oui. Merci."

Click. He closed the cell phone with a brief 'snap' and exhaled slowly until he had no more breath left to give. Thoughts and implications swirled in his head, a spiderweb of to-do's mentally being filed away by the second. He could hear McGee's voice still chattering away to Abby in the background. It didn't take long for the team leader's focus to slide into place and he slowly and aristocratically rose from his chair.

"Grab your gear," growled Gibbs quietly but firmly to his makeshift entourage. The sobriety in his voice was impossible to miss and within seconds McGee was already gathering up his coat and belongings off the chair.

Abby, however, looked as if he'd cancelled Christmas. She was one of the only ones in the team save Ziva who ever dared to question his authority. Gibbs knew she didn't fear him- there was a respect in her eyes, and an all-endearing adoration, but never fear; only caution.

"_Gibbs!"_ protested Abby in a tone of pure anguish, eyes narrowing significantly as she dropped the smoothie cup on McGee's now vacant seat and crossed her arms. "We can't just leave Tony and…"

"_Get your stuff_, Abs," Gibbs reiterated with a little more enunciation this time. But he should have known not to try and divide Abby's loyalties. She looked indecisive for a fraction of a second, but then her mind seemed to sway, and the line of her jaw set with fierce tenacity.

"Gibbs, I can't leave them. They've flown from Minneapolis!"

"They aren't coming!" barked Gibbs impatiently, fixing her with his luminescent eyes, cold and perceptive. The reaction was more ferocious than he'd intended it to be. Abby looked taken aback, as if he'd just given her a curt clout to the head. She pressed herself back slightly, arms uncrossing, but eyes narrowing further and a steely resilience crossing over her expression.

Perhaps if he were a different person, he'd have apologized. But he was Gibbs- and Gibbs did not apologize unless it was under particularly extraordinary circumstances.

Instead, he gave her a lingering look- eyes softening somewhat but the lines on his face still remaining hard and unwavering. Then he turned, stalking across the terminal with McGee hot on his heels, leaving Abby in the seat. He knew she would follow eventually- they'd arrived in the same car. It was like the old parental ploy_. 'Follow me or be left behind.'_

Abby's stare followed him across the airport and Gibbs could still feel those green eyes boring into his back all the way to the elevator. Something in Abby knew that Gibbs was right. Gibbs was always right. In fact, she would probably have felt inexplicably let down if he'd been wrong. For some reason, though, she couldn't bring herself to get out of her seat, let alone chase him through the terminal.

Unable to make any sort of rational decision, Abby settled into her seat and gazed forlornly out at the elevator. She'd wait here and gain back her sense of equilibrium. Gibbs was an impatient man and his patience with her could surely only be tested if somebody was in danger. She swallowed.

Maybe Ziva and Tony would pop out of the plane and everybody would be fine. Here's to hoping. The Gibblet hiding in the back of her mind told her that she could stare at the glass doors forever if she wanted to. But neither of them were going to walk out of there today, and they probably never would.

Ding!_ Northwest 1870 flight from Minneapolis has arrived at Gate H8. _

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Alright," said Ziva, panting heavily, a sheen of sweat already lathering across her furrowed brows, hair straying from her makeshift ponytail and whipping across her face in the midst of the ice-laden tempest. "Alright."

She paused for a moment, propping one forearm against the thick chunk of metal, labouring to catch her breath. It was peculiar, this feeling of utter hopelessness, of physical deterioration. She could feel the cold literally eating away at her senses. Her sense of touch had been whittled away until her hands felt fat and clumsy and holding or moving things was becoming increasingly difficult.

It wasn't that she was unused to working in temperature extremes. In Israel, they had a vicious wind storm that they called a '_sharav_,' or _'khamsin.'_ They were terrible, cyclonic, biting winds that came from the north-west and swept perpetually south-east. They brought extreme heat, dryness, disease, destruction, and were a much-hated and contested topic amongst Israelis on those long hot nights when they could hear the winds whistling shrilly in the distance. Ziva had learnt to deal with those- but in conditions like this, when she skin was not being torn by sand but instead numbed by a blinding snow, she had no solution.

"One more push should do it," huffed Ziva finally, taking her forehead from her arm and bracing herself against the steel wing. If they stopped now, they would become lethargic and drowsy and would surely die. Movement right now was just as necessary for survival as the oxygen they breathed.

"One more push," said a thoroughly exhausted Tony from the other side of the wing, "and I will give man-birth to a trauma baby."

They'd been hauling around this wing for the past ten minutes and had hardly even made a few yards progress. Still, they were nearly there- they'd just needed to get the metal clear of the wreckage.

Tony had thought up the idea of using the wing of the Cessna as a steel roof for a makeshift shelter. They could dig out the snow from underneath and make themselves a very temporary and precarious snow bunker. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The wing was at very least 12 feet long- probably more. The Cessna had a relatively impressive wingspan at 28 feet, but the wing itself had been severed just behind the engine in the crash so it was somewhat shorter.

"Alright, on three," said Ziva with a heavy sigh as she braced her weight underneath the steel. They just needed to move it clear of a fragment of the broken-off engine, lying abandoned on the ground. Then they could drop the godforsaken thing in the snow and start digging before they froze to death.

"One…" Ziva felt the plane shift slightly as Tony prepared his weight under the steel.

"Two…" Both of them tensed. Tony could see the sleek but highly efficient muscles working like crazy all the way through his female partner's lithe physique.

"Three!"

Both of them heaved. They both grunted audibly with exertion, but the wing was half-tilted off the ground for a moment. They both pushed forward and the steel slid cleanly over the broken engine before landing with a thick 'smack' in the freshly fallen snow, pressing it down with its weight so that the snow around it tumbled around the wings edges and rested, loose, on the hot metal.

"Ahhh, hooray!" said Tony with an infectious grin. It was a small, silly, useless thing, but they'd done it right, and that made it the first right thing of the day. His exuberance made Ziva grin despite herself and Tony semi-collapsed on the snow for a moment, his skin shining, chest heaving. He spread his arms and rested on his elbows like a child might sit while making a sandcastle, his boots scuffed and wet from the ice that was clinging to the bottom of his legs.

"What's say we have a bit of a rest, maybe indulge in some fever sex and fantasize about 'Jerry's Mom,' 'Fuzzy Napalm' and 'Face Rapers'."

Ziva's expression changed from wry amusement to concerned suspicion in a single bound. "Face rapists?"

Tony's face fell as he realised his mistake, but a smile cracked his handsome façade a second later and he laughed. The sort of genuine, charismatic laughter she hadn't heard in a while.

"They're alcoholic shots, Ziva. _But…_ I notice you haven't rebuffed the notion of fever sex yet?" Queue the suddenly open body language and the tell-tale wiggle of an eyebrow, dripping with suggestion. Ziva's smile widened to display her straight while teeth and she chuckled despite herself.

"No sex, Tony. If we stop now, we will die. We must start digging. Now. Get up."

He seemed a little disappointed that she hadn't indulged him in their usual innuendo-laden banter, but nevertheless he grumbled almost inaudibly to himself as he hauled himself to his feet. There was a serious undertone to her voice that he wasn't going to ignore and if hard work was necessary for their survival then, well… In the immortal words of John Wayne, '_A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.' _That was probably a horrible misquotation on his part, but he could use the snow-induced delirium as an excuse, and he hadn't seen '_Stagecoach'_ in ages.

"Digging. Digging," growled Tony to himself, looking around in the snow to find something that might suit this purpose.

Ah! Bingo. There was a heavily mutilated blade poking out of that broken wing-engine, the protective metal wire peeled back to reveal the rotators. It would make the perfect shovel, if he could get the damn thing out.

He neared the engine with the expression of a wayward cowboy approaching a shootout. He was heavily tempted to start drawling _'now listen. I don't like you, and you don't like me,' _but Ziva was rather closeby and he would rather not risk exposing himself for a free shot to the groin.

Okay. Tony wrapped his fingers around the bendy metal rotary blade and propped a leg against the metal shell. This was going to take one hell of an effort to extract from the engine drum.

He braced his weight against his supporting leg, and without so much as a countdown, heaved dramatically against the blade.

To his surprise, the blade slid out without any fuss whatsoever. His balance compromised, he went sailing backwards through the air and landed on his back in the snow with a heavy 'oomph.' Ziva chuckled ruefully somewhere behind him and he wrinkled his nose, feeling extremely undignified.

He considered saying something cutting but the common sense lurking in his mind told him now was the time to start some survival insurance, not soothe his own wounded ego. He could do that later.

Tony crawled forward, crouched, and heaved himself to his feet, one leg at a time, pregnant-cow style to avoid injuring his already bruised body any further.

He turned to appraise Ziva, waving the 'shovel' triumphantly in the air, only to find that she was already crouched underneath the wing of the Cessna, re-inforced wide plastic spade in hand, digging. _What the hell?_

It took Tony a few moments to realise that she'd taken the shovel from the survival kit. It was extendable. Well, hell. That woman was inexplicable.

Impressed, (but never ever ever prepared to admit it) Tony sauntered over to Ziva's right and knelt in the snow, his feet cold and his hands going numb and his eyebrows still feeling singed from the explosion, and started to dig. It was hard going. The deeper they dug, the more compact the snow. The good thing, though, was that the Cessna's wing already provided cover from the wind-chill, and without that driving gale to assist it, the snow-squall didn't seem as ferocious as it had before. Some feeling returned to Ziva's clumsy fingers and though she was exhausted, she eventually hit her second wind and worked methodically and determinedly, chipping away at the snow bit-by-bit.

After a little under an hour of ruthless digging, they both leaned back against their temporary snow bunker, hardly able to crawl the distance required of them to turn around and lean against the wall. Their body heat made their little underground igloo significantly warmer and within a few minutes of them sitting there side-by-side it was a comfortable temperature. Both of their fingers were raw and red from the grating of metal and plastic on their skin, and Ziva's ankle was throbbing like absolute crazy on the inside of her boot. She hadn't complained about it since the injury had occurred but the strain had taken it's toll.

They were cold. They were sore. They were uncomfortable. They were hungry. But heck, they were alive and they were breathing and at least for the moment they had a little spot that was safe from the elements.

"How're you battlin'?" drawled Tony lethargically, hardly possessing the energy to enunciate his words properly.

"Tired," replied Ziva drowsily, slipping her hands underneath her jacket for the warmth. "mmm… alive. At least."

Tony grinned weakly into the darkness behind his closed eyes. "Mmmm. A positive, I guess. Gibbs is going to be so pissed."

"Why?"

"He sent me a text message after we took off in the Cessna telling us to wait for the main airliner."

"We should have."

"It was too late," he reminded her with a catlike yawn. It wasn't like they could skydive out of the Cessna into the Atlantic just to swim back to Newfoundland to catch their plane.

"So. He's probably waiting at the airport for us. Right now."

"Mhhmm," said Tony with a silent laugh, opening his mouth and turning up the corner of his lips but failing to actually make any sound. His vocal chords were starting to go numb, anyway. Exhaustion was clawing at his muscles and fatigue was pulsing dully against his mind. Hopefully Ziva wasn't going to bully him into working any more. He didn't think he was physically capable of it. "_So… tired..._. Permission… to sleep?"

"Permission… granted," mumbled Ziva almost incoherently, aware that they'd done all the work their bodies would allow them to, for now. At least they had a semi-safe place to sleep until food and water drove them to other measures of desperation.

Sleep hit him almost immediately. Tony was so out of it, he didn't even notice when Ziva slipped into a deep, blissful slumber and her head drooped onto his shoulder. Nor when her hand surreptitiously and unconsciously slid down to rest on the material of his crotch. _C'est La Vie._


	3. Success At Any Price

**Thank you a million for the reviews! Quick update this time because I'm flooded in and was bored. Heh. Stupid unpredictable Australian weather…**

**Warnings: Inflected language. Survival themes, including hunting animals for food. I don't condone animal hunting or cruelty at all, but creative license… you know.**

**Notes: Did my best to research…. Geography. Survivalist tips, of course. And Afrikaans, courtesy of me reading way too many Bryce Courtenay books. Enjoy. Also, this chapter is slightly shorter than the other two, but should still be satisfying where length is concerned. **

**Spoilers: None that I can find.**

**Chapter Title: Success at Any Price (1934)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo****ooooooooooooooooo**

**NCIS Headquarters, Washington Navy Yard, Washington DC, U.S.A**

"Alright. So assuming they caught this plane from Miquelon, as they never boarded the boat to Newfoundland, they must have stayed in St. Pierre," said McGee slowly and methodically, brow furrowed in concentration, carefully drawing out charts on his computer. It was slow going, but they were going somewhere… at least.

Gibbs, McGee and Lee were using their fabulous powers of deduction to figure out the most probable flight plan for a private plane flying straight from the French islands off the coast of Canada, to the American capital in DC. It wasn't much, but it was going to be a lengthy reasoning and they always had to start somewhere.

Gibbs was leaning grimly on his desk, chin resting on the palm of his hand, and Lee was sitting in the desk formerly occupied by McGee, sitting upright, looking keen and alert and slightly nervous.

"So, they were flying express. Which means they'd have flown from here-" he drew a line from the capital of St. Pierre, "-to here," and dragged it down to the eastern side of Virginia where DC was located.

McGee paused to survey his work, and then sat back, satisfied. Well, that didn't look like such a hard flight to make. If they_ had_ been on that plane, then god knows why they hadn't shown up by now.

Gibbs paused momentarily, watching as McGee sat back contemplatively to wait for his instructions. The younger agent didn't offer any suggestions. Though Gibbs didn't care to admit it, there was a lingering void in the team with Tony and Ziva missing.

Tony, by now, would have called around 90 of St. Pierre, located exactly where they'd stayed and when, and written down who to call to cross-check this. Ziva would probably have already found all the local registered light air planes around Miquelon and seen which had departed in the past few days.

McGee could probably do the exact same things, quicker, with his intelligence and technology savvy- his problem was that he was characteristically ginger, preferring not to make leads unless told to. Gibbs made a mental note to knock him out of that timidness ASAP.

"McGee, start ringing around St. Pierre, anybody that Tony and Ziva were in contact with or at any places they might have stayed. See if anybody knows what pilot they flew with, and check the local light planes. Lee, check the weather patterns from Miquelon through to Virginia."

McGee and Lee exchanged a curious glance. Weather patterns? They both began to draw their own conclusions and none of them were particularly pleasant to think about. If he was asking them to look into the weather then there was a distinct possibility he was considering a plane crash, and when flying over open seas and Canadian wilderness, that wasn't an entertaining thought.

Lee cleared her throat awkwardly as Gibbs prowled past her, turned, and set her with a prompting glare.

"Uh, yes, Special Agent Gibbs, sir. Uhh, I mean…"

Her cheeks reddened furiously and she briskly put her head down and practically buried herself in her computer screen, searching for the previous two day's weather forecasts. Gibbs watched her sternly for another moment before he moved along, contented. McGee was already hard at work, the cell phone pressed to his ear. He wouldn't need any 'encouragement' as Gibbs diplomatically referred to it in his mind. It sounded better than 'persuasion,' at any rate.

There was a 'click' as somebody picked up the receiver.

"_Oui?"_

McGee couldn't speak French, but he really didn't want to have to call on Gibbs or, god forbid, the Director just to have a simple conversation with a French fisherman on the Canadian coastline. McGee hesitated, and then plunged in awkwardly.

"Hello! I mean, uh, Bonjour. I'm looking for some- oh, god, uh, you won't understand me. Do you have anybody there who can speak English?"

Very aware that the man probably didn't have a clue what he was talking about, McGee very quickly pulled up Google translate as there was an amused pause on the other side of the receiver.

"Do you, I mean, can you, uh, get me someone who… anglais, parlant? Please?"

There was another brief pause and the man on the other line chuckled ruefully. When he spoke, it was with a very pronounced accent, and it certainly wasn't French. If anything, it sounded South African.

"_Ja, man! What do you take me for, eh? You think I am stupid because I work on a boat, eh? American pigs!"_

McGee swore he could have heard the man spitting in disgust on the other end of the line and almost dropped the phone, but resolutely kept his head on his shoulders, not sure whether he should be relieved or offended.

"Not at all, sir, I'm just not very good at speaking French," offered McGee apologetically, attempting to defuse the situation.

Pause. _"Ja, man, I know, you sound like a Frenchman choking, that is true, eh?" _

The man laughed again, a deep booming laugh, and in his mind McGee conjured up images of a round-bellied bushy-browed master sailor smoking cigarettes and swearing proficiently in Afrikaans. _"What can I do for you, cheeky bastard, eh?"_

McGee cleared his throat. "I'm looking for two NCIS agents who should have been on your boat earlier, looking for a Jacob Ruffin."

"_Ja, man, they were here. The tall American and the dark-haired lady. Ja, they were looking for the Ruffin boy, lazy bastard he is. Couldn't handle the work we do for the pay he got, so he scampered, fokked off, you know?"_

The man laughed again but this time, with a little less vigour. _"Ja, they left days ago. Staying in __La Chambre Ẻcarlate in Saint-Pierre. Tony, he is a good man, eh? You take care of them, ja?"_

"We will, sir," replied McGee, grinning at how quickly the man had changed from overtly aggressive to passive within seconds. "You have a good day."

"_Ja, you also."_

The man hung up before McGee could and he huffed, placing down the receiver, frustrated. Why was it that Tony always got himself into situations like this? He was going to drive the entire team mad one day, particularly if he'd got Ziva into hot water, too.

This was going to be a_ really_ long day.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

That incessant droning sound had been buzzing on for the last few minutes and it was driving Ziva absolutely crazy. She wasn't particularly noise sensitive- she could even deal with Tony's thunderous snoring, without any difficulties. Not that she particularly blamed him- it had been an arduous day-and-a-half for both of them and he was entitled to some uninterrupted rest. They were both entitled to some of that, really.

Ziva took Tony for granted a bit- he'd saved her neck in more ways than one and without his braun to assist her she would have very quickly succumbed to the elements.

Ziva enjoyed tormenting her wayward partner whenever she got the opportunity. She didn't _really _'snore like a drunken sailor with emphysema.' Well, not unless she was in an awkward position or was extremely exhausted. When undercover, she'd drawn a peculiar wicked thrill from deliberately snoring at the top of her lungs to irritate him.

Well, it had worked, and she smirked spitefully whenever he mentioned her 'respiration issues,' as he so diplomatically referred to them in public, like it should annoy her. Evidently not. It was just another of the many signs that she intimidated him- though he was so very keen to deny it.

'_I assure you, Tony, I can respire just fine.'_

'_Mmm…I like the sound of that.'_

But this _noise! _It was like a humming, murmuring, growling sputter moving in circles around her head, like a mosquito or fly. Perhaps it _**was**_ a mosquito. That would explain why it was driving her batty- she'd hated noisy insects from a very young age.

With her eyes still closed, she swatted the air blindly as if that might assist in getting rid of the noise. Instead, she inadvertently smacked Tony hard in the nose, causing him to jerk violently and growl mutedly at her in his sleep, before wriggling further into the icy wall and leaning on the opposite side of the shelter.

She grinned wolfishly into the cold air. The noise reminded her of a time when she was a child, a girl. She'd been playing in Tel Aviv, behind Mossad's headquarters in the days where the building was surrounded by dense shrub and she would wriggle through the bracken with other children, wrestling and chasing each other and playfully insulting each other in snippets of Arabic, English and Hebrew.

A plane had flown over the bracken. It was the late '80s, perhaps early '90's, when Israel's relations with Palestine and other middle-eastern neighbours had started to deteriorate. The Mossad and their intelligence operatives were diligently hard at it, as the Palestinian Liberation Organisation were endorsing Saddam Hussein and his military missile attacks against the state of Israel. As a result, every drone of an approaching plane caused the population to scamper warily under the nearest solid roof.

Ziva's father had explained this to her in a rather censored manner.

'_That noise, you will hear from three things in your lifetime. Insects like bees and mosquitos, Planes; which I hope you will one day be able to hear without fear, and the third I shall not speak of until you are much, much older."_

So which of the three was this? It sounded a little like a plane. Actually, a helicopter- she could tell because the sound was choppier and louder than the hum of a plane's jet engine would be.

_Helicopter_…

The trigger switched in her mind and she became rigid as the realisation sunk in.

Helicopter meant people. People meant _rescue_.

Ziva immediately sat up with a haggard intake of breath and turned, wrapping her fingers around Tony's arm and shaking him briskly.

"Tony!"

"Mmmgggh." Tony growled incoherently in his sleep and scooted further down the wall.

"_Tony!_"

"Hnnnfhhh. Medium quarter-pounder, no pickles…"

"TONY!"

This time her voice was booming and insistent and she jerked him bodily forward out of a sitting position. His entire physique was falling and he subconsciously acknowledged the fact that his arm felt as if it were about to be pulled out of it's socket.

He roused himself, just in time to feel his torso colliding heavily with the trampled snow floor. He yelped like a kicked puppy and shot her an agitated, puzzled glare, all too ready to pull rank.

"Can you hear that?"

"You mean the sweet sound of silence before I _kick your ass_ for pushing me over?" Tony growled irritably as he sat up, towering over Ziva in the small space, even on his knees.

It was an empty threat though; both of them knew that Ziva could overcome Tony within seconds in a real fight. Tony had the strength but Ziva was lithe and quick and savvy and knew how to incapacitate giants of men without any troubles whatsoever. In any case- it would never get to that point, because Tony would never willingly lay a violent hand on a woman.

"_No, Tony. _We need a signal fire. I can hear a helicopter." Ziva crawled carefully but quickly out of the bunker on her hands and knees, carrying the survival kit with her, favouring her injured ankle. Tony took the brief opportunity to stare at her rear end before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and following her lead.

He straightened outside and blinked, the whiteness burning his eyes. The clouds were still dark and thick and foreboding above them, and the wind buffeted his body, cold and vicious.

But it was no longer snowing, and they could see into the distance, and the whir of the nearby helicopter was still hanging on the winds. Tony's common-sense kicked in and he immediately looked around for something of assistance. Signal fire. He needed something to contain it in.

The motor shell! He could hear Ziva panting behind him as she hobbled around, gathering tinder, nursing that injured ankle. It was obviously hurting her and he was sympathetic but her urgency was contagious and he peeled off the protective wire on the top of the wing's motor.

The wire was mangled and melted and already half-peeled off the nails which kept it there. Tony gave it a good pull, and the wire snapped off entirely. He slid his fingers under the rim of the motor and pulled upwards. The motor drum and rotary blades slid out of the cover and landed with a loud crash on the ground, several of the blades falling from their sockets.

Didn't matter. He upturned the cover and glanced up at Ziva, who was nearing him, arms full of dead, dry wood. Well, the driest she could find under the circumstances- the snow had coated almost everything with an all-enveloping wetness.

"Here, put it in here, dump it in the metal thing," said Tony efficiently, his mind unable to think up a more technical term at the moment.

Ziva bent down onto one knee and carefully tipped the thick chunks of wood into the drum along with some narrower twigs, and then turned briskly, digging through the survival box for matches. When she found them she turned back around and slid out the box, fingers trembling slightly, and attempted to strike it.

"Wait," said Tony with a superior sort of 'I know something you don't know' tone she recognised from working in the office with him. She'd seen that expression many times before. She _hated_ it, but she had to admit, Tony was an intelligent man and often knew more than he let on. When he had that expression, he generally came up with something useful.

"Survival fact numero uno, sweetcheeks," said Tony, flashing white teeth. "Rubber makes smoke burn black." He made a 'watch me' sort of gesture with his fingers, leering wryly, and seized the rubber lining from around the rim of the metal cover. With a brief tug and a snap it was lying on the wood around the tinder.

"Survival fact two. Never light a fire with a match onto straight wood."

He leaned over, his arm lightly brushing past her breasts as he did so. Ziva's eyes narrowed- she was positive he'd done it deliberately but now was not the time or place to argue the fact. She watched him curiously as he pulled out a box of Vaseline and a sheet of cotton.

"Tony, what the _hell-_"

"Silence! Watch the master."

He ripped open the cotton, and opened the jar briskly (albeit somewhat clumsily, frequently swapping hands and placing things down simply because he lacked the ability to multi-task well) before he dipped the cotton into the jar of Vaseline. He tossed the jar aside for the moment and placed the petroleum-coated sheet of cotton on top of the stacked wood.

He scattered the smaller twigs around the sheet of cotton, and briskly plucked the matchbox out of Ziva's hand. By now, she'd decided to just let him go and see exactly what it was he was trying to achieve.

He struck the match with skill and gently held it to the tip of the cotton sheet.

Slowly, the flame caught and began to burn. But instead of burning rampantly through the cotton as Ziva had expected it to, it burnt like a candle, with the Vaseline acting as a wick.

Soon the sticks began to curl and burn, and then the larger logs, and the flame spread quickly until it was strong enough to char the rubber. Then the smoke began to billow- thick, black, dark, and very very visible from anybody's standpoint.

Tony tossed the Vaseline and gave her a theatrical, mocking bow.

"I'm impressed, Tony," Ziva admitted coolly, watching him with extremely observant eyes, which flickered briefly downwards to his torso before moving up again. "Where did you learn all this?"

Tony smiled blithely, his teeth straight and white against his soot-smudged jaw and he simpered haughtily before replying.

"Baltimore, inception survival course. Actually, it was more for the other sort of Canadian wilderness, with the wolves and the fir trees and the bears and the moose… Hey, isn't it weird how the plural for '_moose_' is '_moose_?' I always used to think it was '_meese_…' Hah. Wait, you're probably not the one to ask."

"That was a cheap shot, Tony."

"I can't trust you for idioms; I'm not even going to bother with plurals... Where did the helicopter go?"

Ziva paused. She hadn't forgotten about the helicopter, but he was right, the droning noise had faded into the distance and there was no noise but for their own breathing and the crackle of the fire as it sent a thick smoke into the clear Canadian air.

"Gone," she said so quietly it was almost a hiss. The anticipation that had been building in her gut had dissolved in moments- she'd been looking forward to warm showers, late takeaway dinners at the office, watching Gibbs clouting Tony over the back of the head whenever he said something stupid, which was pretty often. She missed the interaction with the other members of her team. She missed McGee, Abby, Ducky, and Jenny.

But- at least she had Tony with her. As irritating as he could be, if she was alone here she would probably lose her mind, and he was clever enough to hold his own in the brutal world that was the wilderness. They teased each other at every chance but they respected each other to such a degree that it hardly even mattered anymore.

"Hah, hey, look!" said Tony exuberantly, point off somewhere into the distance, eyes widening slightly in mock delight and surprise, a laugh rising and dying in his sore throat. "A bunny!"

Ziva stared at him incredulously after a moment, but followed his line of sight. He was right- a large, fleet snowshoe hare bounded briskly across the freshly fallen snow, pausing briefly here and there where the snow was thinner in order to scratch at the ice.

Well, maybe her respect level for Tony wasn't _that _high.

"What do you think, ninja chick?" whispered Tony in a rebellious, snide manner, unarguably challenging, grinning wolfishly at her. "Think you could get the rabbit with your knife at this distance?"

"Easily," replied Ziva offhandedly as she appraised the expanse between her and the twitchy hare. "_If_ it stays still."

"Well, that's very Elmer Fudd of you, but I'd bet my father's inheritance that you couldn't," he replied self-assuredly, oozing poise from every pore, grinning craftily at the dark-haired Mossad agent.

In answer, she drew her knife, without making a sound, and shook it playfully in front of his face. Tony wrinkled his nose at her, and Ziva turned to observe the animal. The hare was roughly 20 yards away, but it was pure white and contrasted perfectly in the snow, not to mention the fact that it was a small target. It was a difficult shot by anybody's standards.

"_Shhhhhhhh_, _be vewwwy, vewwwy quiet; she's hunting wabbits, ehehehehehehehe_," whispered Tony in a mock nasally tone behind her. The rabbit took a few nervous steps and Ziva steadied herself, bring her knife back behind her shoulder.

There was a brief 'swoosh' as she released the knife and it went spinning with perfect precision through the air. The knife was slightly off-course, a little to the left of the animal she was aiming for. Ziva cursed herself prematurely but the hare darted forward a second before the knife could fly past it, and inadvertently hopped directly into the blade.

Thud! Blood spilt out over the snow and the hare hopped forward madly, with great pace at first but then slower and slower as it lost more blood with every bound. Ziva felt guilty- she liked animals and she'd never kill an animal for any other reason than necessity. And this, though she didn't like it, was necessity. They needed food. It was an 'us or them' situation and this time, the 'them' was a fluffy bunny rabbit.

"Sorry, Bugs," offered Tony compassionately as the hare began to stumble, eventually falling onto the snow in the hills in front of them. They both started up the slope in tandem, Ziva limping slightly and Tony, both happy that they now had something to eat and with a little chagrin for losing that bet.

"By the way," said Tony after a brief moment's pause, his voice a bass-baritone drawl as it usually was. When he spoke it was laced with effortless charisma and humor and he coughed sheepishly, offering Ziva a shrewd grin.

"My father disinherited me when I turned twelve. Heh."


	4. Dangerous Prey

**Warnings: More for this chapter. Tame language, but mild torment themes. Hare preparation, not too graphic. Violence, not too graphic. Sexual innuendo, not too graphic. All is pretty watered down in the scheme of things but still has the potential to offend.**

**Notes: This took me **_**so long to write. **_**–sweatdrop-  
****There is sort of like the prologue leading into the plot arc. Hurrah!  
Also, some action is heating up as you will probably find if you read. and review. **

**Chapter Title: Dangerous Prey (1995)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Rust. It was scalding her, corroding her wrists.

These shackles- she'd been in them so long now, she felt as if her skin was slowly being eaten away. Every breath pushed her lungs forcefully against her rib-cage and her stomach growled incessantly for the lack of food. Her hair felt oily and hot against her back, like a dead animal.

She craved a shower, to be able to stand under cool running water forever, to cut off her hair and never feel it again. She hated it, and she hated the sound of her own breathing. It was so loud and abrasive in the silence- she wanted to tear her own ears out. But she couldn't, of course. Her hands were tied together with these cursed iron cuffs.

How long had she been in here? It felt like decades, but it couldn't have been, because she'd been surviving on only water. In the darkness, without any light to indicate the day's progress, everything felt like one long, eternal night. If she could sleep, she would- but nightmares and bitterness kept her eyes open.

Her name was Sarafina Van Aerdan, like the city in the Netherlands. She was hereditarily Dutch, but had been raised in America. She was a married woman and a mother to a three year old child. Her favourite colour was aubergine; like the vegetable.

But now, she was nothing and nobody- a pawn in a malignant game that was underway, far from home.

In the dark, she'd taken to reciting prayers, as if that might spare her from the reality of what she was facing. The passage was vague in her mind's eye, swimming in and out of focus.

"Hail Mary, full of grace…

Our lord is with you.

Blessed are… blessed art those among women…

And blessed is… blessed is Jesus…"

Click. She could hear the sound of metal sliding across metal, like somebody unbolting the door. She'd heard it before. A stab of fear ran like liquid fire through her veins and her breath began to quicken as if she were running, her heart palpitating wildly in her chest.

Oh sweet merciful lord in heaven- not again.

The door swung open and let in a very small amount of light. But it blinded her momentarily, like a worm thrust towards the sun, and she shrunk away briefly before the door swung shut again. She could hear the sound of heels clipping punctually down the stairs, the strut of a confident woman, a woman in control.

"How are you faring down here in the dark, sweetheart?" said the voice, a feminine voice, dulcet and graceful with that undertone of horribleness and power.

There was a poignant silence in which Sarafina decided immediately not to say a word. She was so hungry, she was almost delirious. And it was so hot, so incredibly hot, she could die…

"It's impolite not to answer when people are speaking to you," said the voice again, drawing closer. Sarafina could almost picture the smile, than twisted grin on the woman's face. She'd seen it before, in the light, but back then it hadn't seemed nearly as terrible as it did now.

But still, she kept her lips tight, as if that was the only thing keeping her sane, the only thing worth living for anymore. She knew something that this woman wanted.

"I have the bucket here, with me," said the lady with a spiteful giggle that soared and died in the dark, and a callous noise sounded as she rested a metal bucket on another piece of metal and it shrieked shrilly in the darkness.

The reaction was immediate- Sarafina thrashed and leant forward against her restraints, eyes boggling from their sockets, skin white and sallow like a hermit who had not seen the daylight in a long while.

"No! _Please!_" she wailed in anguish, shutting her eyes tight and doing her best not to breathe. If the bucket was in here with them, it wouldn't take long, it wouldn't take long for those hellish nightmares to begin.

"Then answer me when I speak to you," said the voice coolly, hardly flustered by her prisoner's distress. "We've been through this before. You don't cooperate, neither do I."

A slight draught blew the basement door open a fraction and the coldness flitted against Sarafina's face. It was so sweet, that gust of wind, she thought that rescue had come- it was cold and fresh against her face and it carried away the stinking scent of the basement, of rotting wood and flesh and gunpowder.

The light spilling through the door silhouetted her woman's figure, and highlighted Sarafina's desperate expression. Fear, hatred, guilt, and the whispers of madness.

Then a moment later, the same draught blew by, catching the opposite side of the door and slamming it shut with a resounding 'bang.' Within seconds, Sarafina's makeshift utopia was shattered.

"Who sent you to find me?" demanded the woman standing on the stairs. "You came with guns drawn and you knew my real name. Sûreté du Québec?"

Sarafina laughed as if she found this funny, her breath catching in her throat and then dying with a rasp and a cough. "No."

"I didn't think so," said the woman with a guttural purr, chuckling along. "They are not nearly intelligent enough. CSIS?"

"No," she whispered, almost inaudible.

"CIA?"

"No." The answer was punctual, autonomous, like a metronome, as if she were speaking robotically.

"Who, then?" snapped the lady, becoming increasingly impatient, her tone vile and scathing.

"I would die before I told you," spat Sarafina in disgust, her legs folded uselessly underneath her and her arms numb by her sides.

There was a long, pregnant pause and Sarafina could hear the woman breathing. There was the briefest sliver of rage, then acceptance, then resolution, and then cool deliverance. All this, she could hear in the woman's breathing- that was how sensitive her ears had become in her long tacit isolation.

"Very well," said the woman curtly. Sarafina watched the rippling shadows as the woman retrieved the bucket from the metal table and set it on the floor. She removed the bucket's plastic cover and tossed it aside- immediately, the foul stench of Ammonia and Clorox entered the air.

The sound of the woman's heels clattered up the stairs once more, and the door opened, closed and re-bolted on the other side. She was alone again. Alone with the bucket.

The fumes stung her eyes and prickled at her skin, as if a million bugs were wriggling under her flesh, gnawing at her muscles, peeling away at her bones. She could feel it in her throat, like acid eating away at her, like the same rust that was eating away at her shackles, eating away at her body.

Her throat convulsed and she vomited violently on the cement- but her stomach had nothing left to give, so instead, she spat out thick undiluted blood and pieces of her throat like clotted muscle.

Unbidden tears fell down her face, staining her cheeks and stinging like poison. They were brought on by the pain of her torment- which had become so brutal and methodical she could hardly remember what had happened before she came here.

There was one thing that could save her, she was sure. The problem was, her acid-eaten mind could hardly recall the words.

Her tongue slowly dragged across her cracked, bloody lips, the dryness in her throat all-consuming.

"Hail Mary… full of grace…"

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

It wasn't the first time Ziva had killed something, but it was the first time she'd dissected it.

In Mossad, there was no need to learn how to skin animals, particularly not ones found primarily in the North. There was an incorrect assumption that because she came from the Middle-East, she _must_ be a spy or a suicidal Islamic extremist. It drove Ziva spare sometimes.

Israel was, and remained to be a rarity in the middle east. A liberal democracy, Israel was known and praised for its freedom of the press, standard of living, and human development. There were, however, some disputes as there always are in thriving countries.

The Hezbollah, a Lebanese terrorist organization which had been solely to blame for plenty of kidnappings, murders and planned covert suicide bombings in her country during 2006. The moment that stood out most vociferously in her mind was the Lebanon War incident- Hezbollah were directly responsible for firing 3970 missiles into the Northern Israel, slaughtering 43 innocent civilians.

But now that the Mazi; _Mifkedet Zro'a HaYab, _Israel's armed forces had withdrawn from Lebanon, it was only the Hamas they needed to worry about. Currently commandeering the Gaza strip, the Palestinian Islamic extremists were a major pain in Ziva's ass.

Ziva despised the Hamas. They'd been the ones responsible for Tali's untimely death.

Conducting rampant and devastating suicide bombings country-wide and beyond, their anti-Semitism struck fear into the hearts of a majority of Israelis and they were a hated and much opposed adversary within the Mossad. With Hamas and Hezbollah keeping her on her toes, she'd had no time for hunting furry animals and skinning them. She'd taken her plentiful food for granted.

So now she knelt, looking tentatively down at the dead rabbit, which could now be appropriately called the 'unrecognizable chunk of meat.' Tony was sitting cross-legged a few yards away, rubbing his arms and gazing at the hare with a mixed expression of disgust and consternation.

"Maybe we should've gone with the candy bars," Tony muttered to himself as Ziva's knife flashed, successfully eradicating another vital organ.

They'd both dug a hole in the snow to throw the hare's innards into as Ziva gutted it. It wasn't much now, as all they could smell was blood and ice- but in a few days time, when it started to rot, they'd be glad that it was safely below ground.

"I think that this is nearly ready," said Ziva, now cutting the hare-meat into recognizable portions. Haunch, another haunch, hindquarters, should she keep that thick bit of meat on the flanks just behind the forelegs? Probably, it would be a shame to waste it. She laid each portion out in the cold snow, which was now beginning to melt slightly, red and churned up for all the effort of preparing the hare.

"You ever spit-roasted before?" asked Tony conversationally, watching as her knife slowly and tenderly split the sinews between each chunk of muscle.

"No," replied Ziva with a brief huff, laying down the last pieces of rabbit meat. It looked red and rich and tender… and she was beyond starving.

If she could recall correctly, she hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday.

"Tony, help me carry this back, please?" asked Ziva, flushed and cold and weary, gathering the meat in her arms. It wasn't much to carry, and Tony sauntered forward to lift up what remained of the edible meat.

It was beginning to snow again. The clouds above were thick and dark, with the promise of heavy weather later in the day.

They had successfully made it through 12 hours out here, braving the elements and the odds. The chances of them surviving had been… thousands to one. But they certainly weren't out of the woods yet- there was only so long they could survive on a single hare and candy bars, and their precarious shelter looked as if it could collapse at any moment.

Whenever a strong gust of wind blew past, it caught the underside of the Cessna's wing and caused it to tilt backwards and forth, smacking loudly against the snow and causing fragments of ice to fly up into the wind.

"Ah, shit," hissed Tony sourly with a sharp hiss, as he fell suddenly through the snow as the harder upper crust gave way and left him thigh-deep in the flurry.

The snowfall was causing the fire to flicker, weaker and weaker as they watched. Starting the fire had been easy the first time with Tony's improvisation, but they were out of cotton or any other suitable tinder and starting it up again wouldn't be easy, or even worthwhile.

Ziva dumped the hare-meat in the snow near the wood's edge, and gingerly clambered over to help Tony. The last thing they needed was for both of them to fall into the deep snow-pits; climbing out was a mission and a half, and they needed all the energy they could possibly conserve.

"Maybe you need to lose some pounds, Tony," said Ziva wickedly with a sly grin as she observed him, slogging uselessly in the snow. Tony made a face.

"Funny, _David_," replied Tony in a derisive drawl, with special emphasis on the 'daaah-veeeed.'

Ziva chuckled ruefully to herself and knelt down, offering Tony a hand.

The young agent took it without hesitation and tried to assess the best route to climb up. With a grunt and a heave he pulled his torso out of the snowdrift, balancing half his weight on his own arm with Ziva supporting him on the other.

He swung his legs out awkwardly and Ziva pulled him briskly backwards away from the weaker snow; as far as she could before his muscle mass got the better of her. She let go, fingers stinging. Ziva was strong, but her muscles were lithe and sinuous rather than hereditarily bulky like Tony's.

"Thanks," he gasped, rolling over onto his back and then pushing himself onto his feet, brushing his hands off and gazing furtively across to the fire that was so important for their survival.

A source of warmth, a place to heat food, and a clear signal for any rescuers- the survival trifecta. No less than the crème de la crème for two struggling 'idealists' who in reality had no idea at all.

But now it was flickering futilely against the snow as the wind picked up, and Tony judged that it wouldn't be able to last for more than a few minutes.

"Maybe we should, uh, drag it into the shelter," said Tony with a brief scratch to his head. Some of the cold snow had seeped into his shoes and now his socks felt wet and clammy. His toes were already starting to go numb at the tips and he was craving some of the warmth emanating from the fire.

"That would melt the ice on the floor of the bunker," she pointed out, tilting her head as if to consider it.

"No it wouldn't," he argued with a furrowed brow, keen to get the dying flame out of the elements. "It's in that… metal… box thingy."

"The engine cover?" suggested Ziva with an arched brow, an expression of vague amusement dancing on the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," he replied, too impatient to bother rebuffing that little sniping smirk she wore on her face. He waved her off dismissively, and sauntered towards the engine cover.

Without thinking, he reached out and pressed his fingers against the edge of the metal container. A moment later he recoiled violently, scalded, holding his throbbing hand against his shirt, eyes wide as he gazed at his red-raw fingers.

Ziva laughed heartily at him, unable to help herself.

"I do not know if anybody told you, Tony," said Ziva, unable to keep the patronising tone from her voice, grinning like a cat with the cream. "But, uh… _fire burns_."

"Yeah, okay, nobody likes a smartass," retorted Tony sourly as he briskly bent down and immersed his throbbing fingers briefly in the snow, which cooled and numbed them almost immediately.

He didn't think the metal cover would be _that hot_ with the weather like this. "If you can think of a better way, let me know."

He stared at her in such a tyrannical way that she had no choice but to stare defiantly back at him. His gaze was intense; like a man who knew exactly how to intimidate people. He was well versed in bullying his fellows- years of work as a cop had drilled that into him and it was almost second nature to question people now.

Not authority, per say; he would rather remove his toenails one-by-one with one of Ziva's Israeli tactical blades than go head-to-head with Gibbs.

Ziva broke the stare first with an irreverant snort and picked up the metal shovel that Tony had used earlier to dig the bunker in the first place. He'd almost forgotten about it- it was lying half covered by whiteness on the ground.

She twirled it speculatively in her palm to find its balance, and then levered one of the open metal sides underneath the fire's metal side. Without further ado, she proceeded to expertly manoeuvre the metal trunk forward and down the dug-out slope to rest in the shelter.

Out of the wind, it began to burn more proficiently and looked more like a fire now than it did before.

"Haha, very good," said Tony, more exulted that they'd saved the fire than impressed with Ziva's improvisation.

At least they'd saved their plane crash love child. If he had lost the fire, he would have felt inexplicably saddened.

There comes a time when nature thwarts man's every possible endeavour. Now was _not_ that time.

Anthony DiNozzo - One, Mother Nature – Zero.

Well, if you didn't count the whole lightning-storm, blizzard, snow-squall thing.

"The flames are melting the edges of the snow," said Ziva, her voice fading musically into his consciousness. He peered blankly at the shelter- she was right, the edges of the snow near the Cessna's wing were melting.

If they left it where it was, eventually it would melt all the snow surrounding the metal wing and collapse in on itself. He needed to move it out a little bit.

Smarter this time, Tony beat Ziva to his old shovel and gave her a magisterial smile. He prodded briskly at the box, attempting to hook it forward.

However, his smile quickly faded. They were on the wrong side of the fire- they needed to be on the inside of the shelter, pushing it outwards. Dang it.

"On your knees, Tony," said Ziva, having drawn the same conclusion, obviously enjoying herself. Tony shot her a venomous glance but slowly descended down on his knees, willing to sacrifice a little bit of his ego for the welfare of their shelter.

Well, it was their only link to survival, after all. Now the wind and snow was beginning to get heavier, and holy shit, it was cold!

He expected to have to do it alone, but found that Ziva was on her knees beside him, ready to angle the fire into the right position when he pushed it.

For all the teasing and the taunting, both of them knew that it was a team effort- together they lived, apart they would die. It was sort of like that 'united we stand, divided we fall,' sort of deal, thought Tony shrewdly.

In position, Tony gripped his little metal spade roughly and dipped the sharp edge underneath the firebox. With a little pressure, he pushed it forward, and Ziva pushed it from the front, so that it was out of the wind but away from the Cessna's wing. It could burn freely without melting anything, or being endangered by the elements.

However, Tony pushed a little too overzealously. Ziva shuffled back out of the way of the metal box, but not quick enough. The metal caught her in the knee and disrupted her balance.

Awkward and unable to keep herself up, she fell forward, landing straight on Tony and pushing him hard back into the snow with a dull 'thud.'

Now they were nose-to-nose, decked out in warm clothes, Ziva's necklace tickling Tony's collarbone and Tony's hoarse breath flitting against her face.

"Whoa," whispered Tony warmly through the awkwardness as Ziva's chocolate eyes bored mercilessly into his. "Déjà vu."

Ziva didn't speak- she seemed a little breathless, winded. She'd opened her mouth slightly as she often did, breathing lightly through her lips. She was warm and light above him, straddling his waist, her inner thighs clamped around the outside of his legs, her body light and warm above him.

A fluid shiver ran down his spine, and suddenly, all he could think about was sex.

It was funny, how it crept up on him in the most unendearing of circumstances. Lust stirred in the depths of his being and his eyes suddenly became hungry, fiery, desiring. His breath came hotter and faster, racing against her neck.

Ziva immediately caught sight of that rampant yearning and quirked a brow, smirking wanly, legs briefly tightening around his.

Smack. A shrill, inhuman wail sounded from outside, and interrupted their interlude.

"What the hell was that?" choked Tony, all pretenses forgotten.

Ziva's eyes widened slightly and she immediately rolled off him, turning around and making to crawl out of the shelter. Tony was already on his knees, shuffling out through the snow. One hand briskly went to his knife and he unbuckled the sheath to allow easy access if he needed it.

He stumbled to his feet, taking a few brief steps into the frigid open air before stopping, the fire that had been pulsing so fervently through his body earlier turning to rigid ice. He could hear Ziva expel her voice next to him as she hurriedly withdrew her knife.

Standing before them, were the three distinct forms of three very real mountain lions.

Tony hurriedly kicked back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, drawing his knife slowly from its sheath. He stood alongside Ziva, trying not to move, as if their interest would perhaps be shaken if he managed not to move a muscle.

The first was the largest, long and muscular. Ziva stood at 5'7... but the cat, measuring length from head to tail, could easily reach 7'5. All three were squabbling tamely amongst themselves over the temporarily discarded snowshoe hare meat that Ziva had left near the trees.

The other two were younger, perhaps offspring of the first, about two-thirds the size but that was still significant and all three were turned, tense, gazing intensely at the two intruding humans. Tony held his breath, hoping against hope they would simply run away.

Too late. The largest, Cougar One, drifted forward, its interest ensnared by the two much larger and more delectable examples of prey standing before it.

Cougar Two and Three followed suit, stalking stealthily, shoulder blades jutting slightly out of their fur near their withers, flanks fluttering in and out with the pulse of their beating hearts and the rhythm of their breathing.

"_Bad kitty_," growled Tony futilely, waving his knife back and forth as if that might help get rid of the marauding predators.

Cougar Three, who was closest to Tony, took a step back and raised its creamy jowls to reveal pink gums and two rows of big, sharp, white teeth.

A little intimidated, Tony's expression became somewhat furtive and he contented himself just to stand there and watch, knife outstretched.

Cougar One was slowly approaching Ziva, who wore a face of steel. It was like predator against predator- Ziva was just as brutal and unyielding as this magnificent cat that strutted to effortlessly before her eyes. Both of them recognised it and there was a strange sort of silent understanding exchanged between them.

Ziva darted forward nimbly, her knife flashing in the air. It nicked the top of Cougar One's ear, and she leapt back again within an instant, keeping her back to Tony's keeping an eye on both Cougar One and Cougar Two at once.

The first cat yowled vehemently, teeth flashing, but to her surprise, it dropped quickly back into the trees and melted into the shadows.

But that didn't perturb the two smaller cats- if anything, they became more aggressive. There was an intense, audacious hunger in their eyes, teeth bared, circling in tandem.

Cougar Three was stalking Tony like a cat with a mouse. Its tail swayed to some unheard rhythm behind it, yellow eyes following his every move.

Tony braced himself, muscles tensed, teeth braced together and breath coming hard and fast, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The cold was searing his face but he hardly had the time to recognise it.

He didn't realise he was being attacked until the cat was on him, the claws rending into his skin. The puma had launched at him, hind paws propped against Tony's belly and forepaws latched onto his shoulder. The weight was staggering- Tony could hardly believe it, the cat was the size of a full grown woman.

The cat quite literally caused the entirety of his weight to teeter backwards, and he could feel himself sailing backwards through the air. Instinct told him that the moment he hit the ground, his life would be forfeit- the cougar would have full access to his unprotected jugular.

With the reserves of his strength, he turned them in the air so that they landed parallel to each other, the cat on it's flank and Tony on his side.

He saw his opportunity moments before he'd hit the ground. The cat landed on it's shoulder, head hovering above the steel edge of the Survival kit.

Tony lunged forward with an guttural growl of primal fatigue, pressed the entirety of his weight on the cat's suspended head, and broke the cougar's neck.

With a quick snap and the flood of lifelessness coursing through the feline's amber eyes, it lay still, still lying near the abandoned opened survival kit.

Tony turned to appraise Ziva.

She'd half-wrestled the cat to the floor and managed to plunge her knife into its throat. But it didn't come without consequence- deep lacerations from the mountain lion's sharp claws were etched down her face and there were plentiful gashes through her winter clothing.

She was leaning above the cat, panting breathlessly, blood staining her hands and dripping slowly down her arms to stain the snow.

Then it came; almost in slow motion. The first cougar, and the largest- the one that had disappeared into the trees when the fight had first begun, came bounding from the trees.

Tony watched as it moved, effortless and powerful, an insatiable bloodlust in its red-hot golden eyes. It was moving straight towards Ziva's unprotected back.

"Ziva!" called Tony desperately, hoarsely, too far away to be of any assistance.

Ziva looked up, heard the panic in his voice and half-rose, turning to face her oncoming assailant. But it was too late- 120 pounds of pure muscle hit Ziva pure in the chest, incisors heading for her exposed Jugular.

Bang.

There was the ear-splitting sound of gunfire, then a tremendous 'crash' as both Ziva and the cougar went flying into their makeshift shelter.

The wing of the Cessna shifted under their combined weight and the already weakened snow crumbled under their force. The shelter completely collapsed, leaving both immobile forms lying on the cold metal.

Tony's hands were trembling.

He held the flare gun in his hand. He gazed blankly at the sight before him- Ziva, battered and bleeding profusely, and the cougar with a flare lodged in it's neck just below the jaw line, smoking slightly and defusing a faint redness into the air.

It was dead- he'd moved instinctively, firing with whatever his hands could reach.

He scrambled to his feet, his wet boots slipping around in the quagmire of blood, snow, ice, and shards of plane wreckage. Sliding and correcting himself the entire way, he made his way over to where Ziva lay, covered in snow and blood, her own and the cat's.

"Are you alright?" huffed Tony, voice laden with concern. The cougar was crushing her left arm.

With a vehement viciousness, he pushed with all his might against the unmoving carcass. It tumbled down the wing of the Cessna leaving Ziva lying there, breath fluttering weakly in her chest, her face pallid and sore-looking.

Why the hell had these godforsaken cats come here? Cougars weren't even pack animals in the first place.

"_Ziva_!"

She could feel it all. The deep drilling sensation of pain stemming from the lacerations on her face and arms. The aching in her back. The pounding in her head.

She could even feel Tony's hot, desperate hands pawing at her arms, shaking her briskly to rouse her.

His face blurred into view, cold, bloodied, handsome and pleading. _She needed to get up._

Instinct and intuition told her she needed to get to her feet and help him. Her body told her that was not possible.

Even though every inch of her being screamed for her limbs to move, they refused.

Without a say in the matter, Tony's face succumbed to a sudden darkness that panned across her vision.

And then everything was engulfed in a dark, warm, all-enveloping abyss of unconsciousness.


	5. Survival of the Fittest

**Warnings: Mild drug references (like antibiotics & valium) and literally some crack!Ziva right at the end. Little else.**

**Notes: I love you reviewers. Let's elope and have little reading-writing-reviewing babies. Huuuurrraaahhh.**

**Today is my birthday! Happy birthday to me! Review for my birthday? ;D**

**Chapter Title: Survival of the Fittest (2005) short film.**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Tony assumed, sooner or later, that survival instincts would start to kick in.

But here he stood, shivering like a wet dog, the wind buffeting his body and the snow whipping him, coating him in sheet after sheet of whiteness; and alas, nothing of real help had surfaced yet. For some reason, he seemed to be able to do little else but cradle the wounded, unconscious Ziva to his chest. She was helpless, for once. His responsibility. If she died now, it would be entirely his fault, and he wasn't prepared to watch his third female accomplice succumb to a third party. Mother Nature hadn't defeated them yet. His breathing was short and sharp, because the coldness of the air bruised his lungs. With infinite delicateness, he brought a hand to Ziva's face and brushed the frost out of her eyelashes.

He didn't know what to do. Their shelter had been completely destroyed, crushed under the duress of the cougar's weight. He couldn't resurrect it, either- the freshly fallen snow had cascaded down and almost completely filled the hole. Ordinarily he would try and seek shelter in the burnt wreckage of the crashed Cessna, but the frame had been completely charred off to the point where there were vast expanses of metal body had been licked away. He could see into the cockpit even now- it was filling up with snow and would provide no shelter from the wind.

He was tired and sore and he wanted with all his heart simply to forge a hole through the snow, curl up in the warmth of his own body heat and fall asleep with Ziva sleeping alongside him. But he couldn't- he vividly remembered his survivalist's instructions when he'd been attending a 'mandatory emergency survival course' in Baltimore. He'd resented it then- but dear god, he was thankful now.

'_Never rest in the open snow. Sure, it might be tempting, but you leave yourself wide open for hypothermia or frostbite to the extremities. Not to mention, the moment you fall asleep, you will be covered with snow and smothered. Tempting, comfortable, but deadly. Doesn't matter how necessary it is for you to sleep- find somewhere out of the way.'_

Somewhere out of the way.

He needed to move.

Without a sound, he stumbled forward. His legs felt as if they'd been tarred, barely able to hold his own weight. Why did he feel so ill, so terrified, so unbalanced? Every thought was muted in his mind. Fear was coursing through his body, panic causing his mind to whir with all a manner of unpleasant thoughts which made unpleasant tremors run down the length of his spine.

Perhaps he was in shock? That would explain why he could barely focus on anything. Why he somehow kept forgetting that he was cradling an unconscious Ziva in his arms. Why he felt that if he breathed any faster, his lungs would explode.

It didn't matter. He didn't know where it was from, but someone had said _'Fear is normal. Panic can kill.' _

Maybe Gibbs said it. Maybe it was from a movie, or a show. He was in no state to remember.

The snow was falling so heavily now that he couldn't even see further than two yards ahead of him. His feet sunk a little through the snow with every step and his breath put out heavy steam onto the frigid gale raging past him.

"S'okay, Ziva," he muttered as he walked. He could barely feel his own arms against her clothes, but he knew he had to hold on. She was wounded, and white, and weak, and warm against his chest.

If they were in the civilized world, her wounds wouldn't be much of a big deal. She'd get it treated, Gibbs would scold her for being stupid, Tony would laugh at her for being mauled by a Cougar… in inner-city Washington. Ridiculous, he told himself with a semi-delirious smile.

Anaesthetic, Valium, a little bit of antibacterial cream and some bandages, and she'd be back in the office the next day.

Valium. Valium.

Tony froze suddenly, mid-step. The survival kit had a bottle of Valium in the first-aid section. The first aid section! Why hadn't he thought of that? He could bring it with him, treat Ziva himself as soon as he got her out of the squall.

He turned abruptly. All he could see was white, white, everything was white, but it didn't matter because he was only a few yards away from their former shelter, and the dead cougars, and the survival kit itself.

He forced himself into a half-run; his legs felt as if they were going to give way with every step but some miracle allowed him to stay standing. Where was it? His eyes scanned the area he was sure that the dead cougars had lay only minutes before. Impossible- it had all been right here, he was sure of it.

He paced forward, back and forth, stumbling and slipping and gulping for breath, the air so cold it scalded his lungs. But it wasn't here- nothing was here. No plane wreckage, no blood, no collapsed bunker.

_It couldn't be. _

Horror and anger welled in Tony's chest.

He wouldn't let this happen- no way!

After the effort they'd spent, after all the pain they'd endured… it couldn't just disappear! _He wouldn't let it! _

He let out a strangled, guttural yowl of rage and frustration, his arms reflexively contorting around Ziva, who moaned and shifted in her sleep.

Thud. His foot hit something warm and wet. His gaze flitted down and the anger evaporated- by some small mercy, he'd stumbled into the dead Cougar. Thank Christ.

He clumsily dropped to his knees and gently laid Ziva alongside him for the moment, her legs curled against her torso in the snow and her head on his lap. He didn't even have a moment to notice the position he'd unintentionally put her in.

There it was! Below the cat's head- the shiny metal side of the flight box, slowly disappearing amidst the sleet. He reached out and dragged it to him, flipping open the top and conducting a hurried inventory.

Candy bars. Small Mag Light. Two lithium batteries. Flight manual. A bible. Atlas. Flare Gun. Knife. A drug issue; with valium, morphine, wipes, antibacterial lotion, antibiotics and sedatives in a draw bag. Bandages. A few other useless bits and pieces. He deftly plucked the medicine from the kit and unzipped his jacket pocket clumsily with his freezing fingers, missing his zipper several times before succeeding.

He dropped the drugs safely in his pocket, and paused before taking a few other things. The Mag Light, the batteries, the flare gun, bandages, and after a small amount of consideration, the candy bars. Damn, he was starving.

"_Shoot--a fella could have a pretty good weekend in Dallas with all that stuff_," said Tony whimsically, shooting Ziva a rueful glance. "It's a '_Dr. Strangelove'_ reference. If you were awake, you'd be kicking my ass by now, right?"

He let the silence hover hopefully between them as if she might miraculously spring to her feet and Gibbs-slap him. But she didn't- she stayed deathly still and Tony frowned anxiously. He shifted, zipping up his assorted pockets and moving slowly and laboriously into a crouching position.

"Okay, we're set," he muttered absently to the comatose Ziva as he re-wrapped his arms around her and hauled her up, grunting as he did so. His legs were still shuddering- but at least, for now, he felt a little more confident in his ability to survive. One thing had gone right. So now, the entire world wasn't against him. All he needed right now was shelter. That was all. A place out of the snow, and he'd be fine.

Damn it, he didn't care if he died in the process, but he was going to help Ziva. He'd watched Kate been hit with an iron round in the forehead. Hell, he'd felt the wind off the bullet, tasted her blood in his aghast, open mouth. That memory still stayed with him- haunted him in his nightmares. He'd watched Paula fearlessly throw herself on top of a suicide bomber, in order to save a roomful of innocent people.

But she'd died with valour- Kate's life had been cut short violently, cruelly, a victim of circumstance rather than a patron of honour.

Some primal urge told him to head towards the trees. Trees weren't shelter, but they would help cut off that savage wind chill which was biting into him with horrendous force. He felt as if several appendages were going to fall off, and he didn't particularly want to lose any of them.

There were plenty of snow-covered Pine trees and large towering Firs that made him immediately think of Christmas. Not that it brought back many pleasant memories.

All he could recall right now was the image of his father, reclining back on his velvet-lined down arm-chair, puffing carelessly on a large _Cohiba_ cigar which had been imported directly from Cuba.

Then his mother, sitting at the table looking increasingly unbalanced as the night wore on. She'd drink herself into a depressed stupor, downing glass and glass of Italian Vermouth called '_Cinzano_.' It was foul stuff- Tony had never developed a taste for it, or Sherry, which was her second preference for angsty holidays like Christmas. Simply another reminder of what shambles her family was in.

He was heading down a moderately steep slope. All things considered, he probably could have considered a different route. Ziva's weight, though slight, was seriously affecting his balance as his legs lacked the stamina to continue much further, exhausted as he was. But it didn't matter, because all he needed was a little tree hollow to hide in until the snow ceased to fall so violently.

One small mercy was the fact that the snow's rage was blanketed a little by the towering pines looming above them, catching the brunt of the elements.

But that only took the real bite off the snow. It was still freezing, incapacitating, and he was sure that if he were to go a few more days at this temperature, his extremities would surely succumb to frostbite. Perhaps he should bandage them.

There were tufts of bramble that protruded awkwardly out from the outcrops, snagging the hem of his pants and catching onto his shoes, frequently forcing him to pause and disentangle himself. The rocks were smooth and wet, so he took great care to step lightly around them, instead walking on the compacted snow or the thick expanses of dry, smooth granite which leaned at a significant angle, enough to bypass most of the snowfall.

He took a mental note to remember the granite- he remembered that granite was useful to start fire with, when used in tandem with another stone… Obsidian? Flint? Maybe he would remember when he was warmer and not dissolving into an all-encompassing panic.

The slope increased significantly into a real decline. A fallen log supported by a pane of granite just before the drop and caused the heavy snow, ice and dirt to crumble away underneath it. As a result, a fissure had resulted in the formation of a small, natural indent in the land. Not quite a cave. But it would do, for now. Right now, all he needed was to get out of the elements.

Relief and caution competed for his immediate attention. Infinitely wary, but also in a rush to get Ziva out of the cold, he peered into the little cavern. No snakes. No spiders.

His legs shuddered and caused the muddied soil to cascade down into the enclosed area, and he cautiously manoeuvred himself down into the tiny grotto. With the granite outcrop as its roof, it measured about one and a half yards high, three yards long, and two yards wide, if his brain was functional enough to make reasonable measurements.

"Okay. Look. We're good; we can do this," said Tony, tenderly depositing Ziva onto the dirt ground.

Well, look at that.

No snow.

Outside, the ice was so dense and blinding that it was peculiar to see something that was so richly brown-coloured.

Ziva was deathly white. Though Tony had been moving constantly in order to generate his own heat, she had been lying stock-still for quite a while now, not to mention her wounds that were susceptible to bad festering, and the rips in her jacket which were an open invitation for the raging cold.

Tony mumbled incoherently to himself as he unzipped his own jacket, shrugging it from his shoulders and draping it across her torso in order to keep her warm. It was a significant rise in temperature in here compared to outside, but with the absence of his Weather-beater jacket, the cold was alarming and affronting. He felt the temperature smack him like a blow to the jaw.

His teeth were chattering, but he couldn't stop now. With a steely resolution, he unzipped the pocket of his jacket and withdrew the things he'd salvaged from the survival kit earlier. The crinkle of the candy bar was like music to his ears.

Without consideration, without even batting an eyelid, he opened the candy bar and senselessly shoved it into his mouth, starvation driving him to extremes. He probably should have rationed it out to last him for a few more days, but he needed sustenance to keep him going. And god knew, he needed to keep going.

The Mars Bar was like a little slice of heaven. He wolfed it down like dog food, his teeth moving faster than they'd ever moved in his life. The feeling of food moving towards his belly was bliss and once he'd finished he sat back with a feeling of blissful satiety. They'd lost the rabbit, but at least he'd remembered the candy bars.

While licking his jowls, he gave Ziva a long and considering glance, attempting to figure out the best way to address her injuries. From his assessment, there were about seven overall. Three parallel gashes on her face and neck- one on the lower left of her jaw, and the other two carved along the inside of her throat.

There was a significant piece of material missing just underneath her ribs, along with four more gashes, and the stains on her material indicated that she'd started to bleed.

Tony hoped against hope that they were superficial wounds.

But then, there was only one way to find out.

"You're going to hate me, Ziva," he mumbled, a little apprehensive, as he gingerly tugged his jacket off the top of her abdomen. Ziva stirred slightly in her sleep, arching her back like a sleeping cat, furrowing her brows and groaning as if experiencing an unpleasant dream.

Checking those injuries meant removing her shirt, which meant baring her to the cold… and the full scrutiny of Tony's ever-wandering eyes.

If she were awake, she wouldn't be a happy camper.

Tony felt like a complete freak, but even his more distorted side acknowledged the fact that it was from necessity, not perversion, that he was doing this.

"Sorry Ziva," he said uneasily, slowly unzipping her jacket, which was missing a significant portion through its front. When it was completely undone he eased it aside, left to deal with the buttons of her woollen button-up sweater.

He hesitated and swallowed, very aware that if she woke while he was doing this he might not live to see another day. But that wasn't saying much- the way things were going, he might not live to see another day anyway.

_Get a hold of yourself, Tony. You're dressing her injuries, not committing adultery, _he told himself sternly. With a deep breath, he started unbuttoning her sweater. Again, when he'd completely unbuttoned it, he eased it aside, and then again with the next sweater until he was left with only her singlet.

He couldn't unbutton it, and he certainly couldn't take it off over her head, which left him with one option. He drew his knife from its sheath, and carefully cut the singlet from underneath her arm to just above her hip, until the material was completely severed and he was free to peel it back across her physique.

Tony sheathed his knife, and stalled significantly. How peculiar- he'd never felt so anxious about undressing a female before.

With a decisive sigh, he opened up the singlet he'd just sliced through, baring her skin to the open air.

She was still wearing her bra, but she was essentially half-naked, and the male in him couldn't help but leer appreciatively at her feminine figure.

"Thank god you're unconscious," he said with a tired grin, chancing a glance at her expressionless face. She was still blissfully asleep.

Alright. Down to business.

He needed to be quick- he didn't want to expose her body to the air for very long. The wounds on her torso were pretty bad- they looked deep, and Tony could see the flesh was red and raw and seeping. If she were awake, she would be in considerable pain.

He pulled the draw string on the bag and spilled out the contents onto the dirt floor, surveying what he had to work with. Evidently, he needed to clean those wounds first.

There were some of those 'wipes' or whatever that people usually used to get the oil off their faces. While improvisation for improvisation's sake wasn't really all that clever, he decided that it might be best to wipe out the wounds with one of those before he bandaged it up.

"Cougars can have rabies, you know," he found himself telling her without thinking, carefully wiping down the lacerations as he did so. His voice was a strange comfort in the silence.

"Conjunctivitis, distemper, tapeworms, feline measles, or god forbid, the Plague," he continued as he softly wiped the wounds on her face and neck, gnawing on his tongue as he did so as a result of his hesitancy.

"You think you're real tough surviving a cougar attack? Yeeaaah, try coughing up your own appendix…"

Ziva stirred in her sleep again and she exhaled heavily, her eyelids fluttering slightly as she did so before she settled back into her comatose state. Tony looked rather fearful and drew back a little, watching her carefully, before he dared continue.

"Don't mean to abandon my civic duties, Ziva," he told her warily in the silence as he unscrewed the tube of anti-bacterial cream, his green-blue eyes watching her cautiously. "It's just that I value my life. You know."

He shuffled forward on his knees and clumsily squeezed out a thin line of cream onto each cleansed laceration, not daring to rub it in for fear of hurting her further or infecting with the dirt on his hands.

"We're in the backstretch now, lady," said Tony, huffing indignantly and placing his hands on his knees, regathering his disrupted equilibrium. Maybe he should dope her up with sedatives- that way; if she woke up she wouldn't kick his ass before he had the chance to defend his motives.

Though it was tempting, he knew there was no other choice but to chance it. And anyway, it was fairly obvious now that he was doing this for her own good.

Tony scrutinized the three bandages and seized the widest one, unclipping it and placing the pin alongside him for future use. He gave those gashes one last good look. They looked a lot better now than they had before- hopefully he hadn't put her through too much trauma while she was asleep. This was the tricky part.

Nervous but with infinite care, he eased one arm underneath her spine and lifted her off the floor, the end of the bandage pinned with one hand against her back. With the other, he tenderly wound it around and around her midriff, tight enough to cover the wounds entirely but loose enough not to be uncomfortable.

Ziva was in an awkward position- legs on the ground, midriff arched into the air with her neck and head resting on the floor.

Tony's heart pounded violently as she let out a long, anguished groan and tossed her head back and forward.

He froze like a rabbit in the headlights as her eyelids fluttered, and slowly but surely, one eye opened to survey him coldly like a cranky wildcat roused from a deep slumber.

Tony gnawed on his lip and felt beside him for a moment with one hand for the bandage clip. He found it a moment later, and carefully pinned the bandage down. He could feel Ziva watching him coldly and observantly, gathering her bearings and assessing the situation before she bothered to speak.

"You undressed me." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, laced with a dangerous curiosity that made his gut churn with guilt.

Her words reverberated in the small space and caused Tony to jump awkwardly. He offered a sheepish, concerned smile, and eased her back to the floor. As tempting as it was to drop her in fright, it probably wasn't the wisest move.

Tony hastily closed her singlet back up across her exposed torso, and made as if to do up her clothes.

Ziva stopped him, smacking his hands away from her chest with narrowed eyes which caused the hair on the back of Tony's neck to prickle.

"I am_ not_ an invalid," she hissed huskily, her tone interlaced with a great deal of stifled pain, commencing to slowly but methodically do up the buttons on her clothing.

"Sorry," he replied, shuffling backwards as she concentrated on her clothes. Ordinarily, he'd get defensive, but he could see that she was in a great deal of anguish. It was evident in her eyes.

"You were bleeding. I had to bandage you up," he explained hurriedly, before she could jump back onto their original subject.

Ziva smiled very faintly as he spoke, almost undecipherable on her face which seemed heavily riddled with agony.

"I understand. Thank you."

She zipped up her jacket, finished with the sweaters, and collapsed back against the ground, breathing sharply with the effort. Tony's heart went out in sympathy.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, redundantly. He knew she was, but she hadn't directly acknowledged that yet, and he had a large amount of drugs at his disposal. There was a long pause before she answered him, and for a while, she gazed almost blindly up at the grey ceiling.

"Yes; a bit," she admitted in a heady growl.

Ziva hated to admit that she was anything less than completely free from weakness, so he knew that '_a bit_,' was the equivalent of '_I feel like I've just been skinned alive by Freddy Krueger._'

"I have some morphine tablets here," he offered, picking up the bottle with a relish and extending his arm, rattling the bottle and offering it up to her scrutinizing gaze.

She plucked the bottle of 10mg tablets from his hand, gave the label a good hard look, before she methodically eased open the lid and popped three tablets into her mouth, wrinkling her nose unpleasantly.

Tony was tempted to gag himself. He didn't see how anybody could dry-swallow tablets, let alone three, but she somehow managed to muscle them down without water, and then peered up at him with dark, incomprehensible eyes.

"Thank you, Tony," she said with a boundless sincerity and he knew that it stood for more than just the drugs.

Tony offered a genuine smile in return, although he wanted nothing more than to curl up alongside her and sleep until he withered.

"You're welcome, Ziva," he replied, and meant it.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Swoosh._ Abby loved that noise.

That was the '_swoosh'_ of the laboratory door, the '_swoosh_' that meant impending company. To Abby, company was just as important as the air she breathed or the caffeine she thrived on.

Without company, she could go partially crazy, holed up here with her machines. She often found herself chatting animatedly to her Network Forensic Analysis unit, or making subtle sexual advances towards her trusty Mass Spectrometer. It was unorthodox, of course, but she would swear on her Caff-Pow that it gave her results several hours earlier.

But that 'swoosh…'

That meant Gibbs, and Caff-Pow, and blue eyes and unrequited hugs and soft kisses on the cheek.

Or it meant Tony, tall and handsome, who always squeaked faintly like a broken rubber duck whenever Abby gathered him up in one of her bear-hugs.

Or McGee, who peered out at her with intelligent, gentle eyes and blinked like a confused puppy whenever she gave him one of her trademark backhanded compliments.

In any situation, that 'swoosh' usually meant something rewarding, be it some evidence, a hug or a Caff-Pow.

In this case, it was Gibbs, with a Caff-Pow clutched in each hand, wearing a buttery expression which meant he was sorry for the altercation earlier but couldn't swallow his chagrin in order to admit it.

"Wow, Gibbs," said Abby merrily, swooping down upon him in order to pluck the drinks from his hands, placing the orange on the desk and taking a long sip from the pink one. "You go far by way of apology."

Gibbs just peered sombrely out at her as she turned and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug, signalling her forgiveness. Gibbs rarely lost his temper with Abby, and when he did, there was always a very good reason for it.

"Any news from Tony or Ziva yet?" asked Abby anxiously as she pulled back, thrusting her fist onto her palm and playing anxiously with her fingers like a small girl might do while nervous.  
Gibbs paused and gathered up a deep and methodical breath before exhaling. He looked tired. "No."

Abby's face fell somewhat and Gibbs cocked his head, taking a step past her to gaze expectantly at her computer. "You got anything for me, Abs?"

"You know I do," scoffed Abby in reply, giving Gibbs an almost scathing glance as if he were ridiculous to doubt his own physic-ness. Gibbs quirked an eyebrow and Abby turned, her hands splayed on either side of her as she spoke, making random movements as if that might assist her in delivering her point.

"Okay. I ran the flight path from Miquelon with the weather patterns over the last few days. Okay, so no sane pilot would fly directly over the ocean for that amount of time, so he would probably be flying a little inland. Like, over Montreal.

Anyway, there have been some pretty feisty tropical lows swooping through. Over the last forty-four hours, there have been some bad storms throughout Quebec and southern Newfoundland. In storms like that, a light plane can fly hundreds of miles off course.

But, positive thoughts, Gibbs. I'm sure Tony and Ziva are just holed up with some really messy quarantine issues," she said hopefully. Gibbs' face looked stern, even a little worried, which caused the smile to be licked clean off her face.

"Thanks, Abby," was all he said in the way of comfort, and he promptly turned his back to stride without hesitation out of the lab, leaving her there with her computers and Caff-Pows, a stricken expression painted on her normally jovial face.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was dark now.

Dark enough to be dangerous, with the unknown looming outside the grotto, some unseen shadow watching with unfurled fangs in the depths of Tony's mind.

There was the wailing of the wind still shrieking outside like a banshee.

The sound of the snow hitting against the granite was a little sickly in the scheme of things, but it lulled Tony into a peculiar restful slumber.

Thankful for the silence and the sleep, he turned onto his back and sighed heavily, eyes fluttering open briefly as he stared at the rocky ceiling.

His body was aching- this was not the most comfortable of beds, but one day at a time. In the morning, well rested and energetic, maybe they could improvise some sort of mattress.

"Conjunction," said Ziva blearily beside him, fracturing that comfortable silence.

_What?_

Random.

Tony blinked a few times, unsure if he'd heard her correctly.

He waited to see if she'd clarify what she'd just said before asking her to repeat herself.

"…What?"

"Conjunction. Tony. Toe-knee. It is a conjunction."

Tony paused again, a little incredulous, and gave one short bark of laughter in response. "What the hell are you on about, Ziva?"

"You said you could not trust me with idioms or plurals, but you said nothing about conjunctions," she replied defensively, absolutely serious, slurring slightly as she spoke.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then...

Tony began to laugh. It was genuine and wholehearted, like he was expelling all the stupidity of the fear and the horror and the frustration and the pain of the last few days.

Right now, it all seemed numbly hilarious, and he let it out with a hearty-bass baritone rumble that caused every limb to tremble in the hilarity of it.

"Are you _high_?" asked Tony, the question punctuated with suppressed chuckles of mirth, before he realized what he'd just asked her. "Oh… wait. Yeah, you are."

"I was stating a fact," replied Ziva blearily.

Tony turned his head- her eyes were glazed and blank and painless and she genuinely looked as if she agony of before was completely forgotten.

"Technically, '_Tony_' is a _compound word_," he corrected, recalling it from his second grade grammar class. "A conjunction is a word like '_because_,' or '_but._'"

"Butt!" said Ziva hysterically, and then commenced to giggle feebly into the darkness.

"Okay," guffawed Tony, grinning broadly in an effort to suppress his laughter, his voice becoming choked as he did so. "Maybe you should lay off the morphine. How much did you take?"

"Thirty milligrams," she replied monotonously, staring blankly off at the ceiling.

"How much is the normal adult dose?" asked Tony curiously and with a sudden suspicion, eyes narrowing slightly.

Ziva's expression suddenly became that of a mischievous schoolgirl who'd gone awry.

She grinned eagerly at him in the dark, her teeth bared and white in the shadows, looking more and more impish with every passing moment.

"Ten," she spat gleefully, and then giggled wickedly for the next few minutes until she was completely breathless.

Then, overcome with an encompassing exhaustion and drowsy from the morphine, she promptly fell into a blissfully deep sleep.


	6. Cold Fever

**Thank you, reviewers! Now, was thinking about our honeymoon, and I'm totally digging Quebec at this time of year…**

**Warnings: Veeery tame language. Like 'damn' and 'ass.' Some reference to the death of a holy cow. Literally. Survival themes. Banter.**

**Chapter Title: Cold Fever (1995)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

It was dark.

Or was it?

Perhaps it was midday and the sun was simply covered by the clouds. The weather was appalling, and Tony was finding it increasingly difficult to measure the passage of time.

They'd been here fifty hours… at least.

Or had they?

He hadn't really been keeping track, but after all they'd been through, it felt more like weeks than days.

He was aching like a bitch. His head, his arms, his legs, his back, and his feet especially. They were raw, as if they'd been rubbed against sandpaper, and burning slightly from the overexposure to the cold.

Probably because his socks had been wet for the entire day yesterday, after he'd fallen into that snow drift, and they'd steadily become number as the morning had progressed. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't really wearing shoes equipped for snowy weather, and was in serious danger of frostbite if he spent any more time in the open air.

It was still snowing, he could tell that much. He could hear the wind outside and the odd _swoosh_ing noise of the snow hitting the granite roof.

He was still on his back, eyes closed, uncomfortable, but somewhat refreshed after the sleep he'd managed. And alive, which was always good.

He couldn't recall any good snow survival movies to reference, but this was definitely looking like a bad crossover between '_Dreamcatcher,'_ _'Castaway_' and _'Lord of the Flies.'_

Still drowsy and half-asleep, he only really registered the outside world when he felt something gently brush against his chest and the sound of light breathing above him.

After the day they'd just endured, Tony could only assume the worst. Bear. Wolf. Cougar. _Axe-wielding Canadian Redneck_, the most dangerous species of them all.

He jolted and instinctively brought back one arm to strike as he opened an eye and glared warily at the offender.

It was Ziva, hair dishevelled and face still pallid, favouring one of her arms and half-kneeling above him, shrinking away from his fist with a dangerous expression.

Tony unfurled his hand and dropped his arm with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

Ziva raised her hand and displayed the candy bar she'd just plucked out of his jacket pocket into his line of sight.

"Sorry for waking you up," she replied in a half-whisper.

"S'okay," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably and sitting up, shuffling back in the confined space to allow Ziva some room to sit.

Ziva peeled back the wrapper on the candy bar and munched on it slowly and with a great deal of delicacy, savouring every bite before taking the next.

"Feeling better?" asked Tony, giving Ziva a cautious, probing glance.

"A little," she replied with a half-nod after finishing her mouthful, though Tony could tell by the way she was sitting that she was still in considerable pain. "Took some valium."

Tony paused and smiled, reminiscing on the night before.

"Are you, uh, mentally stable yet?" he asked testily, raising his brows and grinning.

Her expression suddenly became suspicious and she tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

There was an electric pause as Ziva paused midway through a bite and stared Tony down so blatantly, he felt as if she were casually riffling through his soul like a library book.

"…What are you implying_?"_ she replied slowly, drawing out each word in a way that made Tony unsure if he wanted to continue.

His expression flickered between vague fear and amusement before he tentatively plunged on.

"It's just that, you, uh, went a little… _hard…_ on the morphine last night."

Ziva paused and held his eyes a little longer before continuing to chew her candy bar thoughtfully.

She didn't speak for a few moments until she finished the bite and then set the half-finished bar on her lap, licking her lips before directing her attention back to Tony.

"No I didn't," she retorted candidly without a flicker of an eyelid, thoughtfully examining the ingredients on her Crunchie bar.

"_Yes_, you _did_," Tony insisted, eyebrows jumping up so high they were in considerable danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"No… I _didn't_," said Ziva in an argumentative tone, the one she usually adopted just before she made some guileless death threat, usually involving some sort of office implement and one of Tony's vital organs.

"I'm not an ass, Ziva. You took _three times _the normal adult dose," he replied bluntly, quite sure that his eyes hadn't deceived him.

"I am not a normal adult," she replied in a deadpan.

Tony repressed the urge to chuff scathingly at her. "How pretentious of you."

Ziva shook her head and narrowed her eyes at Tony's lack of understanding.

"That is not what I meant," she replied with a slight edge to her voice before continuing.  
"Most adults only take morphine to deal with slight injuries and generally they do not need any more than ten milligrams. Last time I was hospitalized, my dose was fifty."

Tony cocked his head and whistled appreciatively. "What happened?"

Ziva seemed to be uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed and she shifted away from her probing male companion, continuing to appraise her chocolate bar with renewed interest.

"Nothing, never mind, Tony."

"You don't just stroll into a hospital and drug yourself up for kicks, Ziva. C'mon!"

"There are more important issues at hand," replied Ziva testily, expression guarded, with a flash of steely distemper behind her depthless chocolate eyes.

Tony's eyes widened theatrically and his jaw dropped as if in disbelief, leaning back and observantly giving Ziva a once-over.

"It_ can't_ be!" he barked in his best Mike Savage voice, causing Ziva to jump at the sudden increase in volume. "Is it possible that Ziva David entered a fight that she _didn't win?_"

Ziva grinned at his mock amazement, deciding to take the comment as a compliment rather than an insult, and exhaled warily.

"I was not in a fight."

"What, then? Give me something, or you won't hear the end of it."

Ziva didn't doubt him for a second and huffed indignantly, irritated that she'd even allowed herself to get onto this topic in the first place.

"If you must know, it was a… car accident," she replied slowly and reluctantly, watching sourly as Tony's entire body language expressed his sudden delight.

"No _way_," he gasped ostentatiously, his tone laced with such heavy sarcasm; Ziva was heavily tempted to cover his mouth with her bare hands.  
"_You_? In a _car accident?_ How did this _staggeringly_ unforeseen event occur? Because, surely, it can't have been _your_ fault…"

Ziva wrinkled her nose, resisting the urge to punch him.

At any other time she would have, but they were both in enough pain as it was and she didn't want to provoke him any further.

She shook her head stubbornly, refusing to answer the question.

"Don't leave me hanging; my imagination is already going into overdrive."

Ziva shook her head violently, her long dark curls cascading over her shoulders as she did so.

"Speeding? Traffic? Roll-over? D.U.I? Front bang? Backup collision? Or did you just wrap yourself around a tree, a la our Canadian pilot friend?"

"_Shut up_, Tony," she warned dangerously, her expression vivacious.

Tony's face burst into a gaping smile and she could see the hearty amusement in his eyes. In response, she began looking around for something hard and pointy she could threaten him with.

Tony paused, shuffled back a few feet, and placed both hands protectively over his crotch before continuing.

"…Rear-ender? Microsleep? Road Rage? Front seat sex! Ohh, I know! You were sharing a passionate lesbian kiss with your Israeli lover and…"

"Oh, for gods sake, _Aquaplaning_!" exploded Ziva, the bottled frustration suddenly bursting out in the form of an exasperated yowl. Her eyes were wide and pupils dilated and her upper lip lifted off her teeth like an angry wildcat.

Tony leaned back with an incredulous expression, alarmed and a little apprehensive, and waited a moment before continuing. She leaned back, chest heaving and teeth clenched.

"_Aquaplaning_?" replied Tony at scarcely a whisper, one eyebrow cocked high above the other, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

"Yes, yes, aquaplaning, _hydroplaning_, over the water…"

"And you hit… _what_, exactly?"

Ziva's face once again came closely guarded and vigilante as she stared at him wickedly from behind predatory eyes. Tony wasn't perturbed.

"_Ziva_?"

"A _cow,_" she snapped bitterly, simply because she knew there was no way she could lure him away from the subject.

There was a loud, stagnant pause. Tony's cheeks puffed out slightly as he visibly attempted to stop himself bursting into laughter.

"A… _cow_?" he replied in a choked voice, fighting back the hysteria.

"Why must you repeat everything I say? _Yes,_ a cow!"

"And _why_ exactly did you hit… a _cow_?"

"Because it was walking on the road, and it was raining, and I was hydroplaning," she replied offhandedly, almost resignedly, coming to the terms with the fact that she wasn't going to shake him off.

"Why was there a _cow_ on the _road_?"

"We were driving through Nagpur," replied Ziva, shooting him a nasty glance.

"Nagpur… like, in India?" he replied, floundering incomprehensibly.

For a moment he paused to consider the implications, and then finally began to smile wanly as a switch flicked.

"Oh my god, Ziva, you hit a _sacred cow_?"

"I did not_ mean_ to!" she snapped defensively, crossing her arms across her chest.

In India, most states had laws protecting against the killing or injuring of bovines. Considered holy, they were free to wander as they pleased through the streets, fed and pampered by the citizens.

In most of India, any civilian responsible for the death of a cow could go to prison.

"Was the cow okay?" asked Tony in a reverent whisper, like she'd committed some unspeakable crime. Ziva snorted and shook her head.

"Technically, it was a _zebu._ And no, the cow died."

"You _killed_ the _holy_ _cow?_" moaned Tony, aghast, tenting both his eyebrows and gazing at her as if she'd just described, in detail, the method used to torture puppies.

"Would you stop it, Tony? It's not like I ran down the Dalai Lama!" Ziva snapped.

"Well, there isn't much of a difference now, is there, Ziva? Sacred _cow_… Dalai _llama_…"

"Oh, that was appalling," she groaned in response, bringing her hands to her eyelids and massaging her aching face. She had a suspicion he'd been trying to get that line out for the entire conversation.

Tony chuckled ruefully in front of her and she could hear him grunt as he shifted position, leaning against the thick wall of compacted dirt, snow and stone that made up one side of the grotto.

"So, what happened? Did you go to prison for cow-slaughter?"

"No, I had diplomatic immunity and I was not a civilian. I went to hospital for a broken collarbone, shattered ribs, a fractured skull, and internal bleeding on the brain."

"Internal bleeding _on the brain_?" repeated Tony after giving her a significant look, all the humour that had been so rampant before suddenly forgotten. "Sounds bad."

"It was. I had brain trauma; it is called 'chronic haematoma.' It put me in bed for a while, but evidently I made a full recovery."

"What were the chances of that?" asked Tony, expecting something rather low, given that he'd never really heard many Cinderella stories about head trauma, and he himself had once experienced that eye-opening brush with death.

Ziva shrugged. "Not bad. It sounds worse than it is. Put me in bed for a while, had to be monitored by neurologists until the bleeding healed itself, and then I was fine."

"And all this because of a _zebu?_" asked Tony in tones of mock wonder.

Ziva grinned and then chuckled, hitching both brows. "Yes, all because of a sacred zebu."

Tony whistled and shook his head in bewilderment. It was peculiar that it was trivial, often comic things that led to such tragedy. Not to mention, kind of weird that a cow could cause that kind of damage to a human being, let alone Ziva.

Ziva David, the invincible woman, who Tony would never in a million years have pictured being injured like that. He couldn't picture her in a hospital bed, let alone undergoing an MRI for cranial bruising.  
It was a little surreal to think about, in actuality.

There was a pleasant silence, in which both of them reclined uncomfortably against the walls of their little makeshift cave. The wind outside was whistling softly as it rushed past the entrance of the grotto, but the snow itself had died down a little.

They could even see the trees through the squall, which had been so ferocious before that Tony had been having some serious difficulties seeing even his own hands. But still- the weather was unpredictable and venturing out right now was practically suicide. They had bountiful amounts of water, as all they needed to do was swallow mouthfuls of snow, but they were down to the last candy bar and that certainly wouldn't help them much.

Hopefully, when the weather died down, they could venture back up to the crash site and try to scavenge a cougar carcass, if it hadn't already been taken by the bountiful other predators roaming the ice-laden wilderness. Eating cougar meat was probably illegal here, but… at the moment, they really didn't have much of a choice.

Not to mention the fact that it was most likely not the most appetising thing to digest. If only the pilot had stocked more candy bars, thought Tony sadly.

There was a divergence in those loud, driving winds.

A distant _'bang'_, almost like the sound of gunfire.

Ziva sat up, rigid, wincing slightly at the pain it caused her but nevertheless with all senses on the alert.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered to Tony, tilting one of her ears towards the door as if that might assist in picking up any more sound.

"Yes," he muttered in reply, sitting up in unison, green eyes observant and attentive, on the alert for any other noises.

The wind continued to howl shrilly and they both sat in tacit silence, tense and braced against the stone floor, muscles aching dully with the effort of their vigilance.

There is was again- in the distance, another almost inaudible _'bang'._ Neither of them could deny the fact that it sounded incredibly like a shotgun.

"Think it's worth it?" muttered Tony as Ziva crawled onto her knees.

"Has to be," she mumbled in reply.

It was better than sitting in a cave, at any rate- a chance for rescue was always an opportunity that needed to be grabbed with both hands, because there certainly wouldn't be many of them.

However, there was a significant danger in leaving their cave- they were both wounded, both tired and hungry, and if they lost their shelter in this weather they would be left with absolutely nothing.

It was risky- but in their occupation, risks generally weren't much of a consideration.

Both agents crawled through the dirt and stone out into the ravaging snow. In the raging wind the temperature dropped significantly and Ziva was suddenly very aware of the wet patch of blood that had seeped through the front of her sweaters and jacket, from her wounds. It was wet and cold against her skin, but she would need to brave it.

Tony broke into a half-run and Ziva followed him.

At first she thought she'd be able to brave the elements as she was, but quickly realised that it was certainly not the case. Her ankle was still bruised and sore, her neck and abdomen were agonizingly painful and the medication she'd taken was obviously affecting her motor skills. Everything was a little blurry and indistinct.

She could hear Tony speaking to her, his baritone tones coming in and out of focus as she ran blindly, methodically, without consideration.

"You okay?"

"Yes, keep going," said Ziva, without dropping her pace.

She could keep going- she could keep going for a lot longer if need be because she had been trained to endure. And endure she would, until it got to the point where she physically could not move any further.

That would be for a while yet- it was pain, not fatigue, which was limiting her.

There was another 'bang,' still in the distance, but closer, at very least.

Now, Ziva was positive. It was a gunshot. Normally, they wouldn't be so excited at the prospect of another human being with a gun. But they were so desperate for civilization, the possibility that it could be a murderous lunatic hadn't really crossed their minds yet, and when it did it would be greatly dwarfed by the possibilities that this person could help them.

People with guns in the woods meant hunters, hunters meant little shacks, little shacks meant phone lines and rusty old semi trailers.

The wind was beating at them ruthlessly and with a great intensity. It is one thing to say 'it is cold' and another thing entirely to experience it.

Severe frost is like being constantly mauled by a ferocious animal- it can cause your entire body to convulse without warning, it eats away at your skin, scratches at your eyes and whittles away at you until you are red and raw and eroded.

The human body is unable to distinguish, at first, between intense heat and intense cold. The feeling of extreme, icy snow flaying again and again against your skin is almost exactly like being lashed repeatedly with a burning whip.

It is one of the most unpleasant and punishing encounters anybody can ever endure, and one that often leaves a visible mark.

Tony stumbled on a tree root while struggling at a run through the shrub and paused momentarily to gain his breath, shaking his head briskly to rid his face of the snow that had accumulated at various points on his head. Ziva stopped alongside him, thankful for the brief rest.

"I think we are… lost," whispered Ziva. Tony could scarcely hear her amidst the wailing sound of the blizzard.

"Yeah, this is a little bit too _'Blair Witch Project'_ for my liking," replied Tony, expression dismal, lacking his usual flourish.  
"Before you ask, it's ninety minutes of teenagers running through the woods screaming like pansies."

"I wasn't going to ask," she gasped in reply, briefly placing her palms on her cheeks to shield herself from the cold that threatened to consume her.

They couldn't turn back now. Well, they could, but it would be a hopelessly pointless idea at the moment because the odds of them finding their way back in this weather were slim to none.

But Ziva had been _so_ sure they'd find someone, so positive that rescue was imminent, that she could hear her heart drumming harshly and dourly against her ribcage, even amidst the whining gale.

She could deal with disappointment, but this was the type of disappointment that left her aching, it was distasteful and almost macabre.

This was the type of disappointment that almost always followed a bad life-or-death decision.

Even through the wind, Ziva didn't miss the sudden noise of a shotgun pump and the subsequent '_click-click'_ of a firing pin sliding into place.

She didn't know whether to be horrified or excited and exchanged a quick, sordid glance with Tony before a voice drifted out over the frigid winds to appraise them.

It was feminine, cold, collected and forbidding, and Tony had the immediate impression that this wasn't the benevolent soul they'd been hoping for.

"Alright, lie down with your hands on your head, and don't make a damn sound unless you want me to put 70 grams of lead buckshot through your skulls."

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"Look, sir, it really isn't that difficult… yes, I know… but this is an enquiry within our jurisdiction… _Yes_, I'm sure they're missing!"

McGee had been speaking with the Aircraft Registration Office at St. Pierre for the past twenty minutes, and so far still hadn't managed to get past the second admin assistant.

According to them, the records were confidential, they needed identification and they weren't going to give them the details unless they flew down to Miquelon and presented it in person.

"Well, it's _just not practical!_ We have an investigation underway and it's important that we… No, we can't! ... Listen, why don't you check the number?"

Maybe this was a call that would be better left with Agent Lee, who could easily argue her way through this legal jargon. McGee had never encountered any group of people less helpful. Obviously they didn't take so kindly to their American neighbours over there at the registry office.

"How long is that going to take, McGee?" said Gibbs as he strode into the bullpen in his usually domineering fashion, speaking in a relatively quiet voice that was so stern that it was easily audible by any within earshot.

"I don't know, boss, they're being a bit, uuh, stubborn," said McGee diplomatically, putting one hand on the receiver as he spoke. Gibbs turned, impatience flaring in his eyes, and McGee leaned backwards cautiously like a Chihuahua appraising a Great Dane.

"Give me the phone, McGee."

Without even the slightest hesitation, McGee extended the receiver to the silver-haired team leader, who pressed the phone to his hear just in time to hear the woman finish with a lengthy explanation of why she could not divulge the information they needed.

"You over there are St. Pierre realise that NCIS is responsible for the investigation of all ships that enter our waters?" said Gibbs authoritatively into the receiver.

The woman on the other end paused for a moment; obviously realising she was now dealing with an entirely different sort of investigator.

"_Oui, sir. But the waters surrounding St. Pierre and Miquelon are European, not American. You have no authority here."_

"Yeah, we don't, you're right." Gibbs paused a moment just to hear that satisfied silence from her end over the line before continuing. "You heard of Elijah J. Ruffin, ma'am?"

"_No, mon seigneur."_

"He's been on NCIS's most wanted list for years. You know where we found him? On a fishing boat, registered to St. Pierre."

Pause. _"I do not see where you are going with this, monsieur."  
__  
_Gibbs cleared his throat coolly and spoke without ado.

"If we don't get St. Pierre's full cooperation with this matter, ma'am, it will be your department that will be responsible for the archipelago being shut off entirely from entrance to the eastern seaboard."

"_But, mon seigneur_!-"

"We have evidence that_ your_ French ships are knowledgeably sheltering American felons. That might not have anything to do with planes, ma'am, but I can assure you I will mention the fact that your department were particularly uncooperative with American Naval authorities, and refused to assist us with the disappearance of two of NCIS's finest."

There was a long, deliberate pause on the other end of the receiver and Gibbs could almost hear the cogs turning in the woman's head.

Not to mention, the fact that her breathing had quickened significantly. She sounded as if she'd just been physically slapped through the telephone.

"I… I will transfer you, sir," choked the woman abruptly, and a pre-recorded message in French began to play. Gibbs grinned wryly and handed the phone to McGee, who gazed at his team leader in uncensored awe.

He almost missed the fact that there was an older-sounding man now speaking on the other end of the receiver and stammered briefly before he could regain his equilibrium.

"Uhh, um, yeeah, sorry about that," said McGee distractedly into the receiver, shaking his head briefly to gather his wits.

Unlike the others he'd spoken to, this man spoke perfect English with only a slight French accent. McGee suspected he was originally Canadian. Out of the corner of his eye, McGee saw Gibbs swiftly moving back to his own desk.

"_How can I help NCIS today, sir?"_ said the man in a buoyant voice that made him instantly likeable.

"We need a record of all registered light air craft that have left the island within the last four days."

"_Certainly, sir. Flying anywhere in particular?"_

"Yeah, any planes flying to Washington D.C, either express or en route. Light planes."

"_There are rarely any pilots brave enough to face the elements, Special Agent. Most of them delayed their flights because of the storms across the Atlantic and south eastern Canada. There won't be many."_

"That narrows it down for us," replied McGee dismissively, absently playing with a clicker pen as he spoke. "It would be great if you could e-mail it directly to Headquarters."

"_Most of the pilots who leave St. Pierre are manually registered on a written log, Special Agent. We can fax you a copy, but uuh…"_

"Yes, fax, fax will be fine," replied McGee a little impatiently.

What type of aircraft registry actually _wrote down_ the pilots leaving the air port? It was excusable, he supposed, because in reality there wouldn't be more than two airports on the island and neither of them would be very busy.

"_We'll send it through ASAP. Good luck with the investigation," _said the man with a lofty genuineness in his voice.

"Thank you," said McGee sincerely, putting down the receiver momentarily and heaving an exhausted sigh. He gazed speculatively over at Ziva's empty desk, and tapped on the woodwork of the desk that had once been Tony's.

Still was, really.

His stuff was still in his drawers and his bookmarks were still on the computer.

The only difference was the fact that McGee was wearing the 'Senior Investigator' badge while he was absent and it was a lonely view when a majority of the time it was only he and Gibbs in the bullpen.

McGee brought his fingers to his temples, rubbed them, heaved a sigh, and dropped his head down to land with a resounding 'thud' against the oakwood.

For the first time in a long time, he longed for someone to quote a corny movie reference or make an idiomatic error. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed Tony & Ziva and their absence was driving him spare.

_Just keeping his seat warm_, thought McGee to himself sombrely at he gazed down at the weathered arms of Tony's computer chair and gave it a sad pat.

**ooooooooooooooooooooo**

**If you've got to this point and you still haven't reviewed, please, take the time to click the little button below you. I think. Maybe it's above you. Pretty sure it's below you. Won't take much time, it will make me a happy girl, you'll get that warm fuzzy feeling deep inside like giving presents to small children. Oh, and it will make me update quicker. Everyone wins:D**


	7. The Frozen Inferno

**19 reviews for the last chapter! Holy smokes, heh, well done reviewers! By way of reward, I got this out a few days early for you. **

**Before I forget, i'd better cite my references for the story... hadn't really thought about that. heh. Inspired partly by a book I once read, which for the life of me, i can't remember... Also the movies 'Cast Away,' 'Lord of the Flies,' 'Frozen Inferno,' 'Eight Below,' plus the 'Les Stroud Snow Survival Film' which you can probably find on youtube and random other things I plucked references out of.  
You might have noticed that I also heavily reference 'Dreamcatcher,' so i'd better drop that one too. You might find other film references sprinkled through the story if you are observant enough. **

**WARNINGS: **_**SEX SCENE AHEAD.**_** I guess it's another present for the great reviews. Nothing too graphic, this is T rated, after all. Mild language. That is all.**

**Chapter Title: The Frozen Inferno (2000)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Ziva could hardly breathe.

Between the bandages wrapped tightly around her ribs, restricting the airflow she required to her lungs, the gashes down her midriff that were beginning to bleed again and the uncovered lacerations to her jaw, she didn't think that there was much else that could go wrong with her.

But evidently, she was wrong. After enduring roughly three or four days or searing frosts, explosions, literal cat fights, white outs, near starvation and constant movie references courtesy of Tony, she was almost ready to collapse. And now, after half-sprinting her way through a blizzard to follow some distant gunshot she assumed would lead her to their imminent rescuers, she instead found herself standing here with a shotgun aimed at her back, blood seeping through her clothes, her eyes aching and lips dry.

She didn't want to push herself any further, but it was a necessity, not an option.

Every one of her honed senses was on alert. She couldn't see their antagonist- but it was obvious she was female. She could also hear the sound of throaty panting and the occasional punctured growl; so she could only assume the woman owned a dog.

The click of the gun told her she was holding a pump-action shotgun, probably a Remington 870, a rifle that she was familiar with as it was common in Israel.

The distinctive sound of the pump action being cycled wasn't one she could easily forget. Judging by the fact that the gun was probably used for hunting, and the hunter was a woman, and she was hunting with assistance of a dog, she was probably using a 20 gauge shotshell to avoid recoil.

All this, Ziva calculated within the space of a few seconds. She also knew that the distance between them was too far to cover in a few steps; so there was no hope of defending herself without being shot point-blank.

Not to mention the fact that she was injured and therefore slower. She did not, under any circumstances, want to get into a situation where she was required to defend herself in a fight.

So, with that knowledge swimming in her mind's eye, Ziva warily dropped to her knees and slowly placed her hands behind her head. She could hear Tony's breathing to her left- fast, and guttural, as if he had something lodged in his throat.

His breathing sounded kind of laboured, in fact. Probably a combination of the cold air he'd been inhaling for so long, the exertion of the run, exhaustion, and his scarred lungs after his exposure to the pneumonic plague.

There was a sharp sound of footsteps, crunching the snow. Ziva dimly recognised the brief tap as the shotgun barrel rested against the base of her neck, just above her spine on her vertebral column. One shot, and she'd be rendered a quadriplegic for the rest of her life, if not killed outright. Ziva stayed deathly still, every possible aspect of self defence running fluidly through her mind.

The woman's hands expertly patted her down, smoothing over her pockets, neck, shoulders, under arms, waist, up and down her legs, even in her socks. Ziva had left her SIG in the plane, resting on her suitcase, when she'd dressed herself. When the plane had exploded, the guns had gone with it, so she was completely unarmed, except for the knife at the sheath on her waist which wasn't uncommon around these parts.

"Okay; this is how it's going to be," said the woman in a voice which Ziva immediately recognised as that of a skilled dictator. There was not an inch of sympathy in her voice at the moment- only solid suspicion.  
"You tell me the full truth, you live. You lie, you die. You give me an answer I don't like, you die. Believe me when I say that I will know if you are lying. Simple as that. Understand?"

Ziva paused briefly before answering. She could tell, without even looking at the lady's face, that she was just as skilled at picking out liars as Ziva herself.

However, if there was anybody who could trick a skilled interrogator… it was Ziva.

She knew how to pick a good liar, and she knew how to _be_ one, too.

"Yes, I understand," she answered hoarsely, nodding briefly and resisting the impulse to clasp her necklace.

"You're a cop?" asked the woman. Her tone of voice, the gun pointed at Ziva's back, the brief snarl that caused her voice to purr slightly at the end all told Ziva she needed to say 'no.'

It wasn't strictly a lie, anyway- she wasn't a police officer, but a Liaison Officer to a foreign agency.

"No," said Ziva without hesitation in a precisely balanced voice.

"Your friend?"

"No," she answered again.

"Is he armed?"

"With a knife and an emergency flare gun," said Ziva after a moment's hesitation, as if to ponder the question. Answering too quickly would make her seem too rehearsed. The woman sounded satisfied.

"Why are you here, then?"

"Our plane crashed in a blizzard, we heard your shotgun through the woods and came looking for you," answered Ziva truthfully.

"There aren't any airlines that fly over this region," snapped the lady with a sudden edge to her voice, pressing the barrel of the shotgun harder into Ziva's neck. Ziva closed her eyes tightly before continuing, focusing every ounce of her concentration on the inflection of her own voice.

"We were holidaying in the Miquelon… archipelago, yes? Tony and I were flying express with a private plane back home to D.C. It went down in the blizzard."

"His nationality?"

"American."

"Yours?"

"Israeli."

"Thought so. Mossad?"

Ziva knew exactly how to answer that inquiry. She'd heard that question answered genuinely by the Hamas and Hezbollah in interrogation a thousand times.

A whole segment of her undercover training was devoted to the answering of this question, so she hardly hesitated at all before reverting fluidly into acting mode.

"Never!" she spat in shrewd disgust, jerking briefly with a contorted face as if the very sound of the organization made her want to thrash. 'Conviction is Convincing,' she'd learnt from an early age.

The woman seemed convinced, even pleased. She chuckled ruefully and Ziva felt the shotgun sliding down her skin and eventually dropping altogether.

"Good," replied the woman thoughtfully, stepping back into the snow. "You can get up now. Both of you."

Tony, who had been listening tensely and with a great deal of trepidation from alongside her, expelled all his breath in one go and felt as if all his Christmases had come at once. So that was it? They were home free? What was going on?!

Tony was trembling savagely from the chill and the fact that he had been bent over in the snow, his life resting entirely in Ziva's ability to lie. Thank the gods in heaven that the lady had been questioning Ziva, and not Tony himself.

He got to his feet, thankful that his legs were holding up in the cold, and turned to face their antagonist.

His first reaction was one of vague surprise. He'd expected a Cruella Deville type, wearing chains and black robes with long curled fingernails and pointy teeth… The lady standing before him couldn't be more inconspicuous.

Around 5'8, with long wavy blonde hair pulled into a pony tail, she didn't look at all as threatening as she'd sounded. But there was something in her face, in her eyes… It was riveting, soul-searching, intelligent and perceptive and charismatic. She had eyes like Gibbs, direct and blunt but with the undertone of power and fluid grace that couldn't be missed.

She was pretty. Very pretty, in fact, but for some reason or another Tony didn't find himself drawn to her in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," she apologized genuinely but still with that steely wariness in her voice. "Have to be careful around here."

There was an enormous dog standing alongside her. It looked a little like a Husky, more like a Malamute, a bit like an Akita, and very much like a Wolf. Enormous, with bear-like paws and a heavy set head with a slightly curled tail, Tony immediately found himself getting bad _'Cabin Fever'_ flashbacks.

It's upper lip was curled into a snarl, hackles standing rigidly on end, its muzzle covered in a faint redness as it if had recently tasted blood.

Behind her was a tarpaulin wrapped around what looked like a freshly slain deer, which explained both the earlier gunshots and the blood on the dog's face. She was pulling it along beside her, using two meat hooks threaded through the eyelets on the tarpaulin. A deer of that size must have been heavy, so Tony appreciated her strength for pulling it.

"Hey, it's fine," replied Tony warily, thrusting his hands in his jacket pockets to hide his hands, which were shivering inexplicably from the cold.

"I've seen _'Dreamcatcher.'_ Had to make sure we weren't going to shit an alien into your toilet or something, Right? Heh…" After the words were out of his mouth he realised that he'd come across as brash and bit down on his tongue hard as a reminder to be a little less forward in the future. To his relief, her reaction was almost apathetic.

"Something like that," replied the woman coolly with the faint flickers of a smile. Ziva felt like kicking him, really really hard, but it was a little too early for such overtures so she kept her expression carefully neutral.

"I'm Tony," he offered breathlessly, clamping his teeth together shortly thereafter to stop his teeth chattering.

She nodded curtly and wrapped her hand around the rope on the meat hooks.

"Time for introductions later, I think. Your friend is bleeding and you two look like you could use a hot chocolate or something."

"_You have no idea,"_ replied Tony in an expression that clearly betrayed the fact he would jump through burning hoops for a hot drink.

Ziva felt weak and sick, but heartily relieved. The woman was offering food and drink and shelter. But not safety; Ziva wasn't at all convinced that they were home free.

She began to struggle her way through the snow, her wounds bleeding through her bandage again.

Warmth to her left alerted her to the fact that Tony was trying to help her walk. His arm snaked around her waist, supporting her weight. How could he still maintain that strength after all they'd lived through now? She could hear his hard breathing; see the concern and empathy in his eyes. She smiled her thanks and allowed her arm to rest lightly around his shoulders as she walked.

It was starting to get dark now, because the days were short and the clouds were thick above them. The snow had eased off a little, now, to the stage where it was almost clear.

"This has got to be the most hormonal weather in the world," grumbled Tony inaudibly as he sauntered on. It was funny how the sleet always eased off right after they'd stumbled their way through a blizzard to shelter. Ironic, almost.

They followed the woman's progress through the snow. She was hauling the carcass effortlessly behind her, her dog pacing by her side, occasionally looking back to give them a dirty silent canine snarl. Tony tried not to flinch. Dogs rarely liked him and he'd learnt to accept that, but it was a little intimidating when being fronted up to by a 110 pound wolf-dog.

Tony didn't know how long they walked- but it was long and arduous for him, especially bearing Ziva's weight on his broad shoulders. He was so exhausted, he felt as if he were on the verge of collapsing.

When finally, the trees began to thin and the snow became a little less dense, almost all the light had faded from the sky and the moon was visible hovering amidst the dense clouds. A rickety looking wooden shack was visible amidst the foliage. It was small, and isolated, very rustic with barred windows and what looked like an industrial-strength freezer sitting outside on the front deck.

A freezer? Outside? In the arctic? What was this woman on? Tony pushed back his bemusement and moved slowly and arduously towards the patio.

The woman unbolted the door and held it open for them as they limped through.

Tony's relief was so palpable; he half expected a heavenly choir to start playing and angels to endow him with a silken robe.

"Thank you," said Tony as he led Ziva over to a lounge and set her down momentarily, then straightened to address the woman who was holding the door open with her foot, stringing up the carcass of the deer outside on the tenterhooks to exsanguinate during the night. The wolf-dog trotted in alongside her, to Tony's despair. He'd been praying that she would leave it outside.

"Really. Thank you. You've got no idea how much I love you right now. You saved our asses and I don't even know your name."

The woman grinned graciously and inclined her head.

"It's Cyrielle, and you're welcome. I wasn't just going to leave you there to freeze. Don't go doubting my hospitality. Listen, you must be hungry. I'll go get you some food."

Cyrielle left the room, shedding her winter jackets as she went. In here, it was unbelievably warm and almost satiating in its comfort. Tony felt as if he'd been plucked from a frozen hell and tossed right back to civilization. The electric fire burning adjacent to them made Tony feel like melting into a big puddle of pure bliss.

"Hear that, Ziva?" whispered Tony ecstatically as he kneeled alongside Ziva and jogged her slightly until she groggily opened one eye. _"Food."_

She smiled at his excitability and then smoothed one of her frigid hands over his, taking care to meet his eyes as she spoke.

"Gibbs. Ask for a phone; we need to ring Gibbs."

"Hey, give it a moment! I'm more concerned about your ability to survive through the night. Are you bleeding?"

"A little," she admonished with a toss of her head. "But…not badly. It can wait until after dinner. I'm just… hungry, and exhausted."

"I hear you," replied Tony sombrely, cocking his head like a ravenous puppy and licking his lips.

They were interrupted by Cyrielle, who walked gracefully and silently into the room, causing their eyes to momentarily flicker back up as she kneeled by the lounge and set the foot on the coffee table so they would not be forced to move elsewhere in order to eat.

Tony gazed speculatively at the food she was offering them. It was parcelled in a pouch of green rawhide, and looked like reddy-orange mush.

He was about to open his mouth and ask about it, but Ziva briskly cut across him.

"It's 'pemmican', Tony. Raw fat, bone marrow mixed with deer meat and berries. Explorers ate it in the arctic."

Tony gave her a brief, almost consolidating look, and then gazed back at the mush in front of him in mild curiosity. He'd been fully prepared to eat cooked hare meat- so this was nothing.

"Ah," he said as if that were the most normal thing in the world.

And then, without ado, he began to shovel the mixture into his mouth like his life depended on it. He waited briefly after every few mouthfuls to allow it to settle in his empty stomach, as he didn't particularly fancy vomiting into their saviour's kitchen sink.

Ziva ate slowly and with great poise, savouring every mouthful, eyes almost glazed as she did so. Evidently it was not as bad as they had originally assumed.

"Okay, so, I only have one spare bedroom," said Cyrielle slowly, once again seeming to appear out of nowhere out of the kitchen, inclining her head methodically towards a closed door down the hall and to the right.

"So, Tony, I'm afraid that your friend is going to need the bed because for one, she's the lady and two, she's wounded. Mind taking the lounge?"

Tony blinked. He'd been looking forward to a nice mattress, but after sleeping on compacted snow and rock, resting on the lounge in front of the fire was like booking out a room in the Grand.

"Uh, yeah, sure," replied Tony after a brief hesitation before flashing a grateful smile.

"And, it's Ziva," added his female counterpart as an afterthought after realizing she had not yet introduced herself to the taller blonde.

Cyrielle nodded pleasantly, curls cascading over her shoulder as she did so.

"Well, I'm tired, and I'm sure you both are too. I'm going to bed now, but don't hesitate to come get me if you need anything."

Tony was about to broach the question of the phone call when she inexplicably answered the question for him.

"- and before you ask, there are no phone lines here. I'll drive you into town when the snow clears up and you can ring D.C through the pay phones there. Sound good?"

"Sounds fantastic," replied Tony, having difficulty expressing his gratitude to the enormity of its extent, grinning blithely at her.

"Good, then," she replied, once again giving the impression of a prudent personality, her jackets gathered under her arms. With a staunch nod of her head, she turned and made her way all the way to the end of the hallway and then disappeared out of sight. Tony and Ziva let their eyes follow her warily.

Though it was tempting to discuss the peculiarities of her nature, at the moment it was too dangerous. They were in her own home, after all, and the possibilities of being eavesdropped on were too great.

"On that note, Tony," said a thoroughly fatigued Ziva, "I'm going to… _'hit the hay,'_" she purred almost smugly with a weak taunting smile, fully aware that she'd got the idiom correct.

Tony jauntily shrugged as if that meant nothing to him and turned up his nose. Ziva chuckled, touched his face briefly with her fingers before she raised herself from the lounge chair, the colour returning to her knuckles, and limped her way down the hall and into the bedroom, leaving Tony alone.

Tony cleared his throat and turned towards the fire for a moment, extending his hands towards the electrical fire for a moment to warm them before he huffed, stretched himself out in an almost feline manner with a wide yawn, and straightened.

He methodically gathered up the plates, cutlery and the rawhide pouches, and began to precariously walk towards the kitchen balancing them on his collarbone, because it was polite and he wanted to be a good houseguest.

To his surprise, there was a dishwasher in the kitchen. For somebody without phonelines or a television, she was certainly living in the lap of luxury, given that they were in the middle of nowhere.

With a shrug, he rinsed the plates and knives and put them in the washer, and neatly laid out the rawhide on the bench, wiping off the excess water and rubbing his eyes with the pressing fatigue. Oh boy, he was looking forward to curling up on that couch…

He meandered back out to the lounge room, fully prepared to cuddle up in the cushioning, but abruptly stopped dead.

The malamute-dog that had been so carefully following his mistress earlier, was now curled up neatly on the couch where Tony was supposed to be sleeping.

"Uh, _bad dog_," scolded Tony tentatively. "Get _off _the sofa…!"

He blinked numbly and watched cautiously as the dog opened one amber eye, raised its head to Tony's level, gave him a lingeringly disdainful look and lifted up its upper lip, snarling vehemently in his direction like a rabid wolf.

"Ah. Okay! Or not?" added Tony nervously, backing away because the canine clearly wasn't too open to any negotiations at this point.

Well, he could get Cyrielle and ask for her help, but he didn't want to be intrusive. Or he could try and intimidate the wolf-dog off the couch, which was out of the question.

That left one option, which wasn't all that more appealing at the moment.

Tony slinked warily down the hall towards the cedarwood door. He could still see light filtering in from underneath.

He tapped lightly on the woodwork. "Ziva?"

There was a lingering silence. No answer. He swallowed briefly, and then gathering up the remnants of his courage, he pushed his way into the bedroom.

At first he thought the room was empty, but then Ziva sauntered sublimely out of the shadows and into the faint light. Tony's breath caught in his throat.

She was left only in her bra and underpants, her wounds re-wrapped, her dark hair left to tumble down over her shoulders, a contrast against her brown skin. She stared pointedly at him, but for some reason, he couldn't stop himself from drinking her in with his eyes.

"Tony?" she cut through his intrepid fantasies with one look from those steely eyes that devoured him in this simmering light.

"I'm, uhh," he stammered almost gallantly, teetering indecisively, half wishing he'd tried to wrestle the canine off the lounge instead. "The dog was on the lounge, so, er…"

"So you thought you could barge in to try and get into my bed instead?"

The audaciousness quickly drained from Tony and he gave her a blank, sheepish smile. His mind was working hard to think up a suitable excuse, but at the moment, he was far too tired and logic was evading him.

So, he did the only other thing possible- he told the truth.

"Well… yeah, actually."

There was a lingering, poignant pause and Ziva slowly approached him, with a great deal of poise, a magnificent creature in any light, even though she looked tired and sickly with those gashes across her abdomen, she was sexy as all hell and no part of Tony was trying to deny it.

"Okay," she said finally after issuing him with a challenging glance and a resolute look-down.

She turned, walked over to the bed with swinging hips and immersed herself into the satin sheets without a second glance.

Tony almost did a double take. If it had been that easy, he'd have tried it long ago. But he hoped she was too tired to snore- if she did that tonight, god help him, he'd shoot her himself, gun or no gun.

It didn't take him long to shed his shirt and slip into the sheets beside her. The sheets smelled sweet and fresh and Ziva's hair tickled him when he breathed so that he had to hold back the impulse to sneeze.

"Tony," he heard her breathe wistfully into the fresh air, as she wriggled onto her back to face the ceiling, her eyes peering almost unseeingly up at the ceiling.

"Mmmmmm?" he answered with his eyes half-closed, fingers twitching, and suddenly unused to this peculiar warmth.

Now she turned to face him, completely, chocolate eyes obsidian in the lights which had turned off by themselves after fading completely, illuminated by sheer starlight.

"Thank you. I am not used to depending on anybody else, but…"

Tony knew where this was going and shook his head abruptly to stop it. "Don't give me a monologue, Ziva. It was life or death."

Ziva put a finger to his lips to silence him before continuing as if he'd never spoken.

"Listen to me. I am not used to depending on anybody else, but I was in need of help, and if it were not for you I would be… bleeding out, in the snow in the forest. You were courageous and resourceful beyond words. I'm in your debt."

"This is sounding a lot like a corny '60's Sword and Sorcery movie, Ziva," he chastised mildly, slightly distracted by the atmosphere and the heat and his exhaustion and the fact that her voice was so light and gentle, like a feathers touch to his ear.

Maybe he was hallucinating?

"It's not. It's the truth," she replied sincerely, one hand snaking up to touch Tony's cheek. He swallowed with almost blatant humility and half-grinned.

"Really," she added breathily, and there was a poignant pause where he could not find words to speak or actions to compromise for them. But Ziva seemed to be able to do all the communication for him.

She ran a light finger down the length of his jaw and neck and caused him to shiver violently into the sheets, despite the fact that it wasn't particularly cold.

The satin shifted and ran across his flanks like woven silk, and before he got get a grasp of where he was or what was happening, he felt soft lips brush against his and all pretences were forgotten.

Tony's fingers ran through her hair and after a brief moment hovering on diffident curiosity, he pressed her to him, because she was teasing him and they both knew it.

She'd been deliberately taunting and gentle and Tony shuddered again as the satin raced past his thighs and he rolled atop of her, pulling her waist in to his torso and meeting her lips with a passion that was thundering and _real_.

"Oh, god," breathed Tony despite himself, liquid fire racing hungrily throughout his body, a profound throbbing he couldn't extinguish.

After all they'd been through, it was almost like validation of their survival.

They'd made it.

They'd lived.

They'd seen horrors and dealt with challenges unimaginable.

And this was the primal, savage, lusty sort of consummation that proved they were still breathing.

This was Tony's sort of love. The hard kind, the hot-blooded kind.

The sex that was so fervent that it was bruising, the type that left his back tingling for days afterwards and thighs aching and eager for more.

Tony supported himself above Ziva on one arm, the other running down the length of her body, running the length of her thigh. Ziva's fingers danced up to the back of Tony's spine and her nails scratched down the length of his back, causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to prickle almost electrically.

The cashmere and silk brushed so coolly up against his body in contrast to Tony, who harboured desire so firey it scalded Ziva's lips, quenching a hunger she didn't know she had.


	8. Night the Screaming Stops

**This is out about a week earlier then It should be, because I'm rewarding you all for getting me to 100 reviews!! Hurrah! **

**Thank you to **_**bethellie**_**, my 100****th**** reviewer. Kudos to everybody who helped me get there. **

**Warnings: Mild violence, Mild language**

**Notes: Hehe. I'm sorry for doing this to you all. I really am. I'm horrible. I know. Thank you THANK YOU for the reviews. I love you all. Although after you read this, you mightn't love me as much in return... heh.**

**Chapter Title: Night the Screaming Stops (1981)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

When Tony first woke up he thought he was still dreaming, because all he could feel was the fluid feeling of cool silk and Egyptian cotton resting pleasantly against his naked skin, underneath layers of interwoven thicker blankets and downy doonas that kept him warm and unspeakably comfortable.

Last time he'd woken up, he'd been in a cave in the forest, arched awkwardly over assorted rocks and crushed dirt, so he was sure that this was just an elaborate dream and he'd wake up in a moment, mangled in a bear trap or something…

He opened his eyes slowly and gingerly, afraid to shatter this comfortable fantasy, but alas, though he expected it all to swim back to reality, everything stayed the same.

The sheets alongside him had been slept in and he could hear the sound of the shower jets humming pleasantly in the background.

It all came back like a clout to the head- Shotgun. Cyrielle. Rescue. Wolfdog. Ziva.Mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex.

Heh; well, now he remembered why he was naked.

With a smug grin, he stretched out in sublime satisfaction and propped his arms behind his head with a huff, surveying the room with an airy expression. There was a set of freshly washed, dried clothes lying on the dresser for him.

He blinked at them a few more times before he realized that it was his own boxers, shirt, sweater and jeans. Cyrielle must have cleaned and dried them while he slept. He almost flushed at the implications of that but was very grateful for the woman's hospitality. First impressions weren't always right, after all.

He guessed he was just a little snaky after she'd shoved the barrel of a shotgun into his partner's vertebral column…

He shook his head briskly to clear his mind and slipped out of the bed, completely naked. Ziva was still in the shower- he could hear the water running.

He stalked stealthily towards the dresser- and paused half way to stand in front of the full length mirror on the front of the cupboard's rolling doors, observing himself.

Distracted, he grinned at his reflection and flexed- like any man would do in the same situation… of course.

But then, there was the imminent danger that he could be walked in on at any moment and it wasn't exactly the most endearing position to be caught in.

He scooted reluctantly away from the mirror to the drawers and swiftly dressed himself, thankful as all hell for the fact that his clothes smelt like starch and detergent rather than dirt and blood.

He eased open the door in relative silence after he was completely dressed and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Ziva would probably want some privacy getting dressed after her shower.

The house was quiet and he slid warily down the hallway into the warm living room, where the blonde woman was reclining regally in one of the arm chairs.

She was dressed in a silk shift dress which functioned as a nightie, and was reading what looked like a very old magazine.

He felt a little dirty looking her down after the night he'd just spent with Ziva, but he couldn't help himself. He was, however, as inconspicuous as possible.

The woman had proven herself rather proficient with firearms, after all.

"Morning," said Cyrielle curtly to Tony as he leaned casually against the wall in the hallway.

"Howdy," replied Tony with an amiable grin, sauntering across the space between him with a few long strides and then plopping himself down on the double-seater, legs splayed and hands clasped between them.

"Thanks for cleaning my clothes," he said after a moment's thought.

Cyrielle bobbed her head in acknowledgement and blonde curls went tumbling over her shoulders.

"No problem. They needed it," she replied with that half-smile that Tony had become accustomed to with her. She didn't seem very sociable.

Pretty, but a little too much of a hermit for his liking.

"Heh," replied Tony a little awkwardly, rapidly tapping one leg against the woodwork of the sofa. He wasn't nervous- just a little uncomfortable.

"Well, I have a dead deer outside waiting for me," said Cyrielle, completely relaxed, even a little contented with his graceless squirming.

She inclined her head towards the door and the patio, where she'd strung out the caribou carcass to bleed out overnight.

Tony flashed a quick smile and nodded, perhaps a little too quickly.

"Call me if you need me for anything," she added as an afterthought, rising from her chair with an effortless aristocracy and a satisfied smile.

Despite all the pleasantries and niceties, there was hardiness in her voice that made him feel ill at ease.

But enough of his inner conspiring; nature called. With a grunt, he heaved himself off of the sofa. His toes were killing him- after being enveloped in wet, freezing socks, that was to be expected, he guessed. They were kind of pink and raw, and burning a little, almost numb. It was probably the socks causing blisters, he surmised, because it was becoming painful to walk.

He needed the men's room.

Out of instinct, he went door-by-door… In a house crawl, it was very important never to skip a room, and it was habitual now to check every space in order.  
Nope, that was the second entrance to the kitchen, he noted as he passed the first door. The second was the laundry and a back exit out of the house…

The third led to another corridor, at the end of which, Tony could see a heavily bolted door.

He was just about to keep moving- but a tiny whisper in the silence made him freeze. It was almost inaudible, just a tendril of sound on the warm air. Perhaps he'd just imagined it. That was entirely plausible after what he'd been through.

Thump. Groan.

There it was again! And this time, he was positive he wasn't hallucinating.

Tony took a few moments to figure out how he was going to go about this.

He shot a calculating, ironclad glance down the aisle way- the silhouette and shadow at the door told him that Cyrielle was still outside, tending to the exsanguined meat.

Falling back on his federal agent training, he slipped silently and lithely down the corridor to the locked door.

It took him a while to appraise the bolts- a latch-lock, a turn-lock and a bolt-lock. Nothing too simple, and there was no key required, at least. With another fleeting glance down the hall, he unlocked the door and slipped into the dark basement.

There was no light in here- but he could smell blood, ash, stale air, and… gunpowder? And good god, it was hot! Tony could hear the thrum of the radiator and the gargle of the water heating system.

Well, no wonder the temperature was so ravaging.

He took a moment to peer owlishly into the inky dark. There was a brief glint in the light that had been filtering in through the open door. Bronzey, like copper. Tony pushed the door open a little wider and stepped back apprehensively to gaze down at the scene before him.

It was a cupboard door, slightly ajar, and he could see a small box on the narrow shelves. They looked almost like shotgun bullets; but that wasn't too hard to believe, given that Tony had seen her with a shotgun herself not so long before, and it stood to reason that she would have ammo.

Still- something wasn't right here.

There were boxes and boxes stacked on the wall opposite the stairs, each scribbled over in pidgin Russian, almost like an illiterate schoolboy had messily marked it before shipment. Any boxes with writing like that in red lettering in a foreign language made Tony very apprehensive.

Nevertheless it had been transcripted neatly into English letters underneath the drawl and Tony made out only one word- _'Kalashnikov.'  
_The name rang a bell. He'd have to file that away for later to ask Ziva about it when he got out of here.

He should go back- he knew it. One stumble or crash and Cyrielle would be here and he could be in a hell of a lot of trouble. But his gut was telling him to go onwards, and onwards he went.

He stepped daintily down the stairs, balancing his weight almost entirely on the metal railing lest he made a step squeak. That could be bad, so he was very thankful when he made it to the bottom almost noiselessly.

Then, like a light-footed feline, he tiptoed towards the slightly open door.

He realised with a jolt once he'd touched it that it was not wood, but steel. Tony's gut writhed awkwardly. Steel cupboards in dark basements with foreign boxes were never a good thing.

He took breath and shut his eyes tightly, wrapping his fingers around the cupboard's handle before pausing a moment to gain some equilibrium. He needed to move it open as noiselessly as possible. He inhaled and held his breath, and as tenderly as is possible with a steel door, slowly angled it open.

It made no noise- opening seamlessly. Tony had expected a shrill, metallic shriek.

But his relief was quenched a moment later when automatic down lights flicked on inside the steel compartment and its contents were illuminated.

Guns. Hundred of them, mounted neatly on metal racks.

Winchesters, Remingtons, Gatlings, Thompsons, Brownings, Glocks, SIGs, Jerichos, M40 Sniper Rifles, even stacked GAU-17's, large and lethal machine guns that could be propped onto a tripod in order to neatly massacre thousands of people.

Then there were endless boxes of Ammo- every calibre and bore known to mankind, along with some random things like slaughterhouse captive bolt-gun bullets.

What the _hell _was this?!

Hunters didn't have this! Not this sort of arsenal!

What was this doing in the basement of a pretty blonde hillbilly living in rural god-knows-where!?

"Tony!"

The voice wasn't curious- it was infuriated.

Macabre. Deadly. Tony froze awkwardly like a rabbit in the headlights and turned slowly towards the source of the sound

In the darkness, he saw the brief flash of illuminated flesh at the back of the basement, a face drooped in submission, before his eyes were forcefully drawn back to Cyrielle, who dominated the stairs near the door. Her presence was blistering.

"I was… uh, I was looking for the bathroom," said Tony hurriedly by way of explanation, deftly stepping away from the vast collection of firearms, the lights dimming behind him.

"In the basement?" she replied coldly.

"I, uh… look, I'm sorry," he amended, talking quicker than usual because evidently this was a good time to do some serious ass-kissing. "I'm curious, and eh, haw, I just…er…"

Cyrielle took one fluid step down the staircase, fingernails rapping neatly on the steel railings.

"I suppose I have some explaining to do," she said ardently after a brief pause, the statement accompanied by a resigned sigh.

Tony resisted the urge to gape at her. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

"Uh… Yes! Yes, you do," replied Tony, adopting a stern tone, playing along to the best of his ability. He didn't need to call the shots. He just needed to pretend that he was, until he found the opportunity to shag-ass and get the hell out of here.

"I'm a wanted woman, Tony."

Tony bared his teeth in a savage smile and huffed, voice tinged with sarcasm. "How humble of you."

Cyrielle stiffened and Tony could see her eyes hardening in the half light like ice rapidly ensnaring still water, the lines on her face contorting into an unpleasant grimace.

"You're standing in front of my steel stock of firearms and you have the_ gall_ to insult me? You've got some real balls, my friend."

"Well, I figure I'm closer to the guns than you are," replied Tony coolly, taking a step backwards, aching to pick up a SIG and riddle the lady with full metal jackets.  
"And as for the balls thing, well, _heh_, I get that a lot …"

He'd spoken too soon and a little too audaciously.

Cyrielle fluidly drew a handgun out of her jacket, thumbed back the level and pointed it resolutely at Tony's forehead.

There was a scorching, electric pause and Tony stopped moving altogether, his eyes locked on the barrel of the gun.

"You think you can hit me in the dark?" he asked quietly with turbulent intensity, resisting the urge to leer furiously at her.

"Yes indeed," she purred in reply, without even batting an eyelid. Tony could see by her body language and the way she spoke that she was not at all perturbed; in reality, she seemed completely at ease.  
"In fact, I could fire three hollow points into your body right now. One to the lung, one just below the stomach and above the intestine, and another in your groin with perfect precision. I could miss your vital organs entirely and watch you writhe in the basement while you die of ensanguination, blood filling up your lungs to the point where all you can taste is death and gastric acid."

Tony licked his dry lips, remaining silent, adrenalin coursing through his veins like fiery lava.

"But you know what, Tony?" she added as a quiet afterthought, the gun's aim never quavering.

"It's not going to come to that. You know why? You're a good man, and I like you. Really. You've just got the wrong end of the stick here."

Tony said nothing more- just continued to stare detachedly at her. He didn't prompt her to continue, but she did so anyway. He wanted to run, to get the hell out of here; he wanted Ziva to stab the woman in the back while she was off guard…

"I'm not a psychopath."

"Oh, okay. So, like, your gun collection is just a quaint little hobby? Something to… pass the time?" said Tony, the question punctuated with exuberated coughs and a look of derisive loathing amusement on his face.

"Do you want to be a smart-ass? Because the offer of a shot to the groin still stands."

"I'll be good. Continue."

Cyrielle simpered visibly at him through the dark.

"I didn't start this, but when I came here I decided to end it. I'm hunted by some pretty savage people, Tony. You know why? Deals gone awry. Adventures in mistranslation. Communication breakdown."

"Story of my life," quipped Tony cursorily, though he quickly shut up when Cyrielle visibly tightened her finger around the trigger.

He gulped apprehensively as she continued on.

"I made some bad decisions; I'll admit to that. I spent money in some pretty sordid places and made contact with some real repugnant people. You know, I even went to the authorities. Canadian Intelligence, you know. They told me they'd put me under witness protection if I gave them some names and fucked the hell off. I did. But of course, they did what every goddamn federal agency did; they cut me open and hung me out to dry. Protect me? They offered me up like a lamb to the goddamn slaughter. There are still these damn vengeful bastards after my blood. I need to protect myself."

"Oh, okay, right. With… every gun known to mankind?" replied Tony slowly and scathingly with an eyebrow quirked in significance.

Cyrielle shrugged in obvious apathy.

"Think of it as excess stock. Once you've been running for long enough, it's difficult just to throw things away. It gives me a sense of security."

"Like my cup."

"You know what hollow points do, Tony? They expand to double the size, scatter, almost like shrapnel. Your crotch wouldn't stand a chance."

Tony resisted the impulse to flinch and cover himself with his hands.

He didn't particularly want bullets through his palms, either, though, so he stood stock still and glared bitterly and a little anxiously at her.

"So what the hell are you proposing I do, lady?"

"You walk out of this basement. You pretend this never happened. You get driven back to the town tomorrow, you shut your damn mouth, and you get a good job, marry a good woman and live a good life. All I ask is for you to keep your silence."

Tony swallowed the bile that had turning in his throat, fingers clenched into a tight fist and the muscles in his jaw drumming wildly.

He met her eyes with a wary honesty.

"You have my word."

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"GIIBBBSS!"

The trademark husky yowl of the agency's forensic specialists reverberated across the bullpen, causing several other curious agents to peer speculatively over the barriers as she went tearing out of the elevator towards the Major Case Response.

Special Agent Gibbs closed his eyes briefly before he turned to gaze at the wild-eyed Abby, puffing excitedly.

"I know you were probably already on your way down, because of your super-psychic tingling spider senses, but I thought I'd bridge the gap and meet you halfway or something because I know it's a long way to-"

"Abby!" he cut across her in a curt growl as he normally did. It was almost becoming a tradition between him, Abby and McGee.

Why did they insist on _rattling on_ so much?

"Right, bottom line! I have something. And it's important. Sort of."

"Would you like me to play you a fanfare?" replied Gibbs warily with narrowed eyes.

Abby grinned roguishly. "Uh. If you want. I've always liked trumpets. But, anyway…"

She slapped down a small slip of papers down on his desk and beamed broadly at him.

"McGee sent me the transcript of the pilot records in St. Pierre, and we talked to the manager of '_La Chambre Ecarlate,' _where Tony and Ziva were staying. The pilot's name was Adrian Breckenborough, and he's registered on the record as having left about four or five days ago. I ran the plane's flightpath with the weather patterns at the time, and we've got a location."

Gibbs abruptly sat upright in his chair and stared intensely at Abby, prodding her hastily onward simply with the audacious burning in his eyes.

"Quebec," said Abby, slapping down another piece of paper in front of him, which he deftly surveyed.

"To be a little more pedantic, the _Jamésie Region,_ which doesn't help us all that much. In terms of land mass, it's bigger than Arizona."

Gibbs leapt to his feet, causing Abby to step back in surprise as he gathered up the papers and addressed the younger field agent who gazed apprehensively up at them.

"Hear her, McGee? Get us the next flight out to Quebec, and step on it."

"Wait, wait!" replied Abby quickly, stepping out to intercept Gibbs as he made to stride out of the bullpen towards MTAC.

"That was just the bad news, Gibbs! I've got more, and it's good. Or, um, bad. Depends on how optimistic you are. Well, I contacted the LE's in the province of _Jamésie_, to try and organize a search. But it was a little too late. Some hikers found a Cessna badly crashed and half-covered in snow. It's registered to Mr. Adrian Breckenborough; Tony and Ziva's pilot."

Abby paused melodramatically when Gibbs's face visibly fell in dismay and McGee slumped in his chair across the bullpen, brows furrowed and teeth clenched.

"But wait! Here's the punchline, Gibbs," said Abby theatrically in a wide grin, obviously thinking as positively as positivists actually allowed, but her grin faltered somewhat as she delivered the news.

"There was only one body in the plane; the pilot's. Tony and Ziva are missing."

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

It was night time now.

The time of night when most people were immersed in a deep, senseless sleep. The 'witching hour,' thought Cyrielle with a brief morose smile to herself as she reclined against the living room wall, tenderly nursing a .357 Magnum revolver in her arms, rubbing down the sleek metallic surface with an endearing fondness that was peculiar between humans and inanimate objects. Particularly ones that were so frequently used to bring about violent, angry deaths.

Cyrielle rather liked the Magnum. A revolving rifle, it used what were colloquially called 'dumdum' bullets. Jacketed hollow points, or JHPs, they were used specifically when severe destruction was necessary.

They 'mushroomed,' or expanded, particularly in the tip, to twice their double size. They could decimate vital organs, rupture sinew and split bone. If used correctly, though, they could cause the least amount of pain- bang, death, particularly with a shot to the head.

These particular bullets were called 'hollow cavity,' with an extra large hollow which dominated the bullet, designed for maximum expansion.

Maximum damage. Maximum gore.

Cyrielle was fond of Tony and Ziva. They were friendly enough. Genuine. Humorous, and they sounded like real nice people. She'd been fully prepared to help them out of here, back to the town, give them help, send them on their way. Unfortunately, Tony had seen something he should not have seen.

There was no way in hell she could just let him walk out of here now- because in her business, 'witnesses' were immediate and abrupt targets. It didn't matter how sincere his promise had been. One drunken night, one slip of the tongue, bang! She was gone. That was far too much to trust in the word of some random stranger that had stumbled, bruised and bloody, into her cabin.

Still. She felt sorry for the young man. She didn't want to put him down right there in the basement- it would cause too many difficulties.

His lady friend would hear him and come running down, and then queue the hysteria and the tears… Hell, she wasn't a bad person, really.

Cyrielle had some compassion, and sympathy. Just because they both needed to die, didn't mean they needed to die in the midst of intense, driving fear and agony, shot like cows in the slaughter in her basement. They weren't animals, for god's sake. If they were going to be massacred then they deserved to go with a certain degree of dignity.

So she waited. She'd been waiting for hours now.

It was 3:15 AM.

_Showtime._

Coincidence about the timing, because it was very '_Amityville Horror_,' but yesterday the girl had woken at 5AM, so logic told Cyrielle that at this point, they would be at their deepest point of sleep.

Hopefully they died during a really nice dream- it was every human's most fervent hope that they would go peacefully in their sleep. This didn't really scream 'peaceful,' but at least they wouldn't be in any great pain. Well, so she surmised. She'd never really died before.

Cyrielle eased herself off the brick scaffolding she'd never had the patience to get rid of, and moved lithely through the hallways, the timber sturdy and reliable under her bare feet, blue eyes glinting yellow in the reflected moonlight.

She eased up to the cedar wood door and pressed her ear to the crack. The sound of the nocturnal wildlife outside was rampant and vociferous and she sourly pulled her ear back from the door.

She couldn't hear a thing; but that didn't matter. She knew for a fact that this door creaked when it opened, due to the rusting hinges and the rubber buffer that always scraped the buttom, so she'd need to be careful.

Cyrielle didn't want either of them to wake up and realize their fate before she could physically carry it out- dying in fear was a horrible way to die. She braced her weight against the underside of the door and pushed up slightly so that the wood glided soundlessly over the rubber door buffer, scarcely making a noise.

She could see the intertwined, indistinct forms of the sleeping couple on the bed. Cute- they were snuggled up together.

She'd never really had the opportunity to ask either of them whether or not they were an item, because their interaction had been rather interesting. They squabbled like brother and sister, and yet they'd literally slept together last night, which ruled out that possibility.

They seemed fond of each other and yet disliked being in each others company for extended periods of time.They'd shown that they'd forego anything for the other's safety. Strange and intriguing dynamics. Pity that Cyrielle wouldn't get to see any more of it.

She stepped forward in absolute silence, something she'd learnt on her own in her career chouce, steadying the revolver to her shoulder.  
This would need to be done with thorough professionalism. The first bullet wasn't a problem, but there was a good chance that once the first bullet was fired into Tony's skull, Ziva would wake up.

She didn't want that. She needed it to be so quick, it was almost simultaneous.

Two shots, two deaths, and one hell of a mess… but that was alright. She'd deal with that later, the cleaning wasn't too hard. Right now, she needed to concentrate.  
Taking care not to get too close lest she accidentally rouse one of them, she aimed expertly down the revolver's barrel and took aim.

She knew exactly what she was doing, where she was aiming, what would happen. She was practiced, certified, specialized, and licensed, in every aspect of the word.  
Cyrielle gnawed speculatively on her tongue and silently apologized to the friendly little couple she'd rescued, and then so neatly condemned.

It was a peculiar, sordid irony.

Without any further ado, she held aloft the revolver, locked on, and thumbed back the hammer.

Bang.

The hammer flicked back again.

Bang.

The gunshots fired out and disrupted the tacit quiet of the Canadian wilderness, causing several birds outside to fly, shrieking shrilly, into the stale and dimly illuminated night sky.

The stationary forms in the bed jerked once each in tandem, like a violent twitch, and then both of them lay blissfully, deathly still.


	9. Blood Hunt

**Longest chapter yet, heh. Written at 3AM, no time to beta thoroughly. If there are any mistakes I've missed, I'll do them in the morning.**

**I LOVE THE REVIEWERS, really, you all make my day. I thank you for having the time to critique me; it makes it all worth my while. **

**Warnings: Moderate violence and tame language.**

**Chapter Title: Blood Hunt (1985)**

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

After the interlude in the basement, it took a long while for Tony to get a moment alone with Ziva. Cyrielle was constantly there, giving them food, making conversation, politely dogging his steps and so he could not find the opportunity to relay what he'd seen to her.

However, Ziva picked up on his unease; she was his partner, she was tuned in to almost every nuance in his body language. Whenever Cyrielle had her back turned, Ziva would cast him a prompting glance and he would quickly shake his head.

As it was, it was only come nightfall that Tony had the opportunity to speak to her alone. Ziva didn't need much sleep- as it was, she went to bed rather late, just before Cyrielle herself. She'd slipped wearily into the bedroom, and Tony waited half an hour to avoid suspicion before he followed suit.

Ziva was waiting for him, still dressed, reclining back on the bed in the dark.  
When he stepped into the room it took a moment for him to gather his bearings and he squinted uneasily into the night, unsure if she was actually awake or not.

"You had something to say?" she whispered after a long pause, causing him to jolt awkwardly by his place at the door and nod unsurely, tenderly edging his way towards the bed, where he crawled onto the mattress and knelt above her.

When he spoke, it was a furtive whisper, along with a wary glance towards the door, to check that they were not being overheard.

"This morning, I went into Cyrielle's basement. Completely filled up with weapons. She caught me, gave me a little monologue. Told me she was an ex-something-or-other, contract killer or something. Witness protection. She said as long as I kept my mouth shut about it, she'd let us live, drive us into town tomorrow, as long as the roads weren't too congested with snow."

Ziva paused and Tony could feel her eyes boring steadily into his. When she looked at him like that, he felt immediately uncomfortable, and he rigidly refused the urge to squirm.

"Another thing," he added, furrowing his brows.  
"She had boxes lining the wall, all scribbled over in Cyrillic. I only managed to catch one word of the transliteration; _'Kalashnikov._' Sound familiar?"

Ziva exhaled, and dropped her head in steady resignation. After a moment she re-established that fiery glare and nodded.

"It's Russian, Tony. '_Kalashnikov_' is the full name for the AK-47. Assault rifles."

"Arms dealer, then?" whispered Tony, disheartened.

A part of him wished that they were some sort of mundane household appliance; that wouldn't be as ominous, nor as difficult to swallow.

"I would say so. Assassins' never have need for more than one or two of the same weapon."

Ziva looked at ease, relaxed, despite the fact that Tony was tensed and on edge, his muscles braced as if expecting something, though what exactly he did not know.

There was something else, something that had been bothering him, and a nagging impulse in the back of his head told him it was important.

"There's something else," he started, casting another cautious glance towards the door where the darkness was trickling dimly into the room above the door buffer.

"I saw another woman in the basement just after she came barging in; in shackles, like a prisoner. I don't think Cyrielle realized I saw."

Ziva gazed at him blankly for a few moments before her brows slowly started to lower in bemusement.

"That does not make any sense, Tony. Why would an ex-dealer be holding hostages?"

Tony shrugged and a quizzical, puzzled silence took hold. Ziva arched her back and glanced briefly at the door. All the lights were off, but she could not hear or sense anybody nearby with the exception of the silent man kneeling alongside her.

"There is something amiss here, Tony."

"Uh _huh!_ How observant of you."

"I am very serious. No arms dealer in the world would let you walk away from here, retired or not. It is a part of the assassin's creed; never leave any witnesses alive that you are not completely sure you can trust. What was wrong with the roads today, Tony? Nothing- the snow is not congesting the way in the slightest. Why, then, did she not bring us to the town?"

There was a sudden silence and Tony's gut churned as he processed what he was being told. Then, inevitably, cold understanding began to seep into him and his face visibly fell in the dim light as Ziva watched. He slumped, back aching, and eased his weight onto the mattress, disheartened.

"You think she's going to kill me?"

"I am fairly sure she intends to kill_ us_, yes. Get off the bed, Tony, and from here on, you must be silent."

An uncomfortable knot was turning in Ziva's gut. Had she been informed of this earlier, she would have made an effort to escape while the light was stronger and survival was easier. There had to be a town nearby, because obviously this woman had supplies that consistently needed to be re-stocked.

There had been an unease nagging at Ziva since she'd been interrogated with such thorough ruthlessness in the forest. She should have realised then. She should have acted sooner- but she had not wanted to take for granted the fact that they'd been saved. Why hadn't she trusted her instincts?

Ziva silently began to push forward the sheets underneath the doona into thick, misshapen likenesses of a sleeping human, using the under-pillows when she could.

Tony caught on after a moment, and kneeled, thrusting his arms over the top of the mattress to assist her. It took a while for them to get anything even vaguely realistic, but after a short time they had a fairly reliable model of two sleeping human figures. Close inspection would quickly reveal the truth, but for now, it would buy them a few minutes, at very least. It was very very late; or very early, depending on how technical you wanted to be.

Tony hurriedly stepped over to the dresser and pulled on his jacket over his sweatshirt, patting down his pockets he'd yet to empty. There was still the candy bar, a torch, and the flare gun.

He'd dismissed it, at first, as being a little nonsensical to keep those things, but right now he was immensely grateful for the fact that he'd kept them.

His eyes were adjusting to the stale, dim light and he stepped after Ziva as she hurriedly pulled on her waterproof weatherbeater. Tony could hear her wincing slightly as the jacket brushed against her still-fresh lacerations.

Tony admired her resilience. After all they'd been through; she still battled on with that steely, determined mentality she'd never allowed to disintegrate.

Then, there were feminine footsteps in the hall. So soft, they were almost inaudible. Whispers, as if the shadows themselves had a throat and were breathing, panting at their necks. Ziva stiffened and beckoned violently to Tony to follow her.

He looked alarmed, but to his credit, made no sound; as always, Tony was a fantastic performer under pressure. He slunk stealthily after her, to the corner of the room, hiding between the dresser and the wardrobe. In the twilight, it was difficult to see them as they were, immersed in the blackwash that escaped the gilded moonlight.

There was a brief draught of air that rushed through the room and Tony could tell by the dark shadow cast over the bed that Cyrielle had entered the room. He observed her silhouette, panic gnawing at him and fear coursing through his veins. One wrong breath, one sudden movement, and they were both dead.

She stood there for a moment, gazing at the makeshift fake likenesses 'sleeping' in the bed, as if in deep thought. Tony avoided looking at her directly, because locking eyes with another often caused that 'being watched' feeling and it would be all too likely for her to turn around and immediately open fire.

Just as he was processing those mental images, Cyrielle raised her revolver and fired into the bed.

_Bang. Bang._

The matted blankets and pillows jerked violently and Tony felt Ziva's arm erupt into goosebumps- probably a result of the adrenalin that was flowing so profusely through her veins, she was positive that it must be audible through the room.

Tony thought for one sweet moment that it might be over- she wouldn't notice anything gone awry, and simply walk out of the room, leaving them to escape. By morning, when she realised her mistake, they'd be long gone, and she wouldn't be able to do a damn thing.

It was the lack of gore that made Cyrielle pause.

Colour is almost indistinguishable in the dark, and splattering blood is difficult to spot when the victim is enveloped in thick blankets. However, with a hollow cavity bullet like this, devastation was supposed to severe. A bloodbath, per say. Cyrielle could not spot a single drop. Perhaps it was just her eyes, a little thrown off by the moonlight.

She sashayed forward, (Tony took a sordid note of that- that she could still sashay like a latin dancer after apparently committing double homicide) and gingerly peeled back the layers of material so modestly covering up the physiques of her sleeping victims.

She blinked morosely down at the sight before her- taking a moment for it to sink in. She'd fired straight into layers of coiled blankets and pillows. A fire ignited in her belly and she paused malignantly in realisation before her upper lip curled back in fury, wheeling around with her revolver aloft.

Now, on guard, she spotted the couple within seconds, as they crouched in the shadows and peered agitatedly back up at her.

All three of them reacted in unison.

Cyrielle took aim and pressed her index finger to the trigger- but there was a sharp, fiery 'bang!' from alongside the dresser and a flash of brilliant red light briefly illuminated the dark. A searing flare hit her square in the hip, physically lifting her off her feet and propelling her back across the bed. She felt as if she were being branded with a red-hot cast iron.

Ziva and Tony both scrambled to their feet, breathing heavily with epinephrine and adrenaline driving them to run as fast as their legs could physically carry them out the door.

Cyrielle gasped in surprise, burning, but fluidly brushed off the pain and sat bolt upright on the bed, cocking the revolver.

_Bang! _

_Bang!_

She heard the dull 'thud' as both bullets hit the wall in the hallway, missing their targets.

_Damn it!_

Neither Tony nor Ziva had ever run so fast in the entirety of their lives. They'd moved quickly before, there was no doubt about it, but this was the first time either of them could remember literally sprinting in order to defy the death that was only a few paces behind them.

Ziva instinctively ducked as the woman opened fire from the bedroom- one of the bullets narrowly missed her head, whizzing past her ear to embed itself into the brick wall.

They skidded through the lounge room, the polished timber causing them to lose the friction and struggle for their footing.

The door was locked! Tony couldn't help but curse savagely in his head.

His hands were sore and shaking and he hurriedly turned the lock, pulling the entirety of his weight against the cedarwood door until it swung open with a significant weight behind it, almost making him stumble with the momentum.

Just as they stepped onto the boreal porch, Cyrielle came skidding lithely into the living room, turned, and briefly locked eyes with Tony as he stared icily back at her.

Her dog had leapt off the lounge and was now standing near the threshold, snarling maliciously at Ziva and Tony, hackles on end and its eyes a demonic yellow.

Tony heaved on the door with all his might, his arms aching with the effort. Just as Cyrielle fired, the woodwork obstructed her target, and Tony could hear the ear-splitting

_'Bang!' 'Bang!'_ and subsequent thuds as the bullets smashed into the door, literally missing them by inches.

"_Sic 'em, Mambo!"_ she hollered hoarsely just before the door could slam shut.

Ziva was sprinting through the snow with all the speed her trembling legs could afford to give her. Tony was faster, simply due to the fact that he was taller and long-legged and inherently masculine.

Nevertheless, she held her own, thundering along beside him with all the energy she had to give.

Though Ziva could run without many difficulties over the freshly fallen flurry, Tony was having a little more difficulty. He was heavier, and therefore with every step at this momentum he would sink to a depth around mid-calf, forcing himself to physically leap out in order to keep running. His feet were numb and burning.

Exhausted and in significant pain, he felt himself slowing down despite his determination to continue.

Behind them, _'Dr. Mambo,'_ the wolf dog, sprinted along with his upper lip lifted up and white teeth glinting ferociously, catching up with them at a very quick rate.

They were so close to the tree cover now, he could almost taste it. A few more yards, and they'd be out of firing range…

Tony felt a sudden burning at his ankle- a spasm of pain stabbed down the length of his spine and one leg convulsed with cataclysmic agony. Tony yelled hoarsely out loud, sparks exploding in front of his eyes, and felt his entire body falling helplessly towards the ground.

The dog had sunk its fangs into his Achilles heel.

Then everything was a blur; a heavy weight pressed onto his sternum, shaggy fur pressed against his arms and a set of bared, yellowed fangs were thrust viciously towards his face. The canine was growling like nothing on earth- with such portentous sinisterness, such savage evil, Tony was almost positive it was the dog of the apocalypse.

"Tony!"

Ziva's voice faded in and out of focus. He had his hands up to defend his face and throat and he could feel the dog mauling the living hell out of his fingers, ripping the skin from his flesh. Tony's own blood dripped from his palms onto his face- he could taste his own blood; and resisted the urge to gag.

The weight was suddenly lifted off his chest and Tony watched mutely as Ziva tackled the canine off him, attacking it with a venomousness that made her seem like a wildcat herself. Her dark eyes were orange in the moonlight, wide and ungodly, as she dropped to her knees, striking it again and again with her bare hands, evidently unable to get to the knife at her waist.

Tony drew out the flare gun, again, awkwardly sliding back the hammer. Shit! This was the last flare. His hands were bleeding and his fingers were numb- he could hardly hold the damn thing.

Nevertheless he took a tentative aim, praying to god he wouldn't hit Ziva by accident, and pulled the trigger.

The flare was a little off-course. It hit the dog in one of its hind legs rather than it's underbelly as he'd meant it to.

Nevertheless, Mambo rolled off Ziva with an agonized yelp of distress and lay on it's back, the fiery red rod protruding awkwardly out of it's singed flesh.

Bang! A bullet whizzed past just to the left of Tony and he awkwardly attempted to get to his feet. By some small mercy, his feet were working- at least the dog hadn't severed the nerve in his heel. He pulled Ziva up by her sweatshirt and hauled her after him. The trees were so close!

Bang! Another bullet came streaking past, hitting a tree and spraying them with bark as the hollow cavity decimated the wood.

_Aw, crap_, thought Tony desperately as they breeched the trees and sprinted blindly through the darkness.

He was bleeding from his hands- leaving a blood trail. If the dog managed to get to its feet, they would be easy to track. Not to mention the fact that it was the middle of the night, and hypothermia was suddenly looking very plausible.

So now, they were back to square one. Wounded, lost, in god knows where. Only now, they had an armed psychopathic killer after them along with her blood lusty hellhound. _Fantastic._

"Hot chicks can be such a _pain in the ass,_" wheezed Tony despite himself as he laboured through the snow.

They ran steadily for as long as their legs would let them, until it got to the point where Tony needed to ask for them to slow down. The leg that the dog had attacked could hardly keep his own weight, and he was consistently tripping over the exposed tree roots in the enveloping darkness.

"Don't you have a torch?" hissed Ziva quietly through the inky shadows after he stumbled for the umpteenth time. Tony blinked, gave her a blank look, and laughed aloud.

Why hadn't that occurred to him?

He drew the Mag Lite from his pocket and made to flick it on but his hands were almost useless- he could barely press the button to turn on the light.

"Ziva, can you hold it?" he whispered as they walked briskly through the darkness, sore but lacking the gall to explain that he was unable to wrap his fingers around it.

She said nothing, but gingerly took the torch from his trembling fingers and flicked it on. The surrounding shadows were illuminated by the dim light and Ziva grimly led them through the dark.

It was eerie, that was to say the least. Both of them jumped nervously at any sound or sudden movement behind the trees, expecting at any moment the enormous form of Dr. Mambo to slide from the blackness, or Cyrielle to appear wearing her characteristic snarl and holding her shotgun to their heads.

Alas, they continued on and they encountered only owls and birds and rodents. Tony shoved his bleeding hands into his jacket, to stop the blood dripping so obviously out onto the snow. Their teeth were trembling and their toes numb in their shoes, but alas, they marched on.

Neither of them really expected to find anything, but they continued to walk without purpose, knowing only that they needed to keep going. They needed to _get away_. At the moment, that was the _only_ priority.  
The trees began to thin- the moonlight clearly visible in the night. Though nervous about stepping out of the woods back into the deathly open, Ziva made sure to thoroughly look left and right before she ventured out into the open.

"Look," said Tony hoarsely behind her, and she paused momentarily to turn. Tony was gazing pointedly at the ground, so she cast her torchlight onto the compact snow.

There were many distinct sets of tire tracks through the snow, revealing the asphalt beneath the ice.

"A road," breathed Ziva hoarsely, casting her torch up and down the long, winding path. Enormous pine trees lined both sides of the tarmac, causing sinister shadows to dapple the street surface.

They exchanged a glance, but without a word, set out down the dark and silent road. It was leading somewhere, after all. Hopefully, 'somewhere' wasn't too far.

Neither of them knew how far it was they walked- but eventually, the distant sound of a grumbling, choked engine met their ears and they warily paused, standing in the tree cover to observe. If it was Cyrielle driving in her semi-trailer, they didn't want to be caught standing in the open. She'd shoot them down like sitting ducks.

But alas, it was a medium-sized van, trundling down the road with enormous tired that fought for traction in the ice.

They both hurriedly stepped into eyeshot and waved desperately, fully prepared to physically run in front of the vehicle to make the driver brake if need be.

Alas, it wasn't necessary. The driver of the truck slowed to a stop and wound down the window.

It was a young looking fellow, no older than Tony, who gazed at them with an evident concern in his eyes.

"Salut!" hailed the driver in a jovial voice, with an underlying sympathy as he eyed down the obviously weathered travellers.

"Es-tu vas bien? Vous regardez blesser gravement."

"Eh?" replied Tony, cocking his head like a confused puppy. "What's he saying?"

"He's asking us if we're okay," she translated wearily before turning back to the young man who was gazing furtively down at Tony's savagely bleeding hands.

"Nous sommes amende. Pouvez-vous nous apporter à la ville la plus proche? C'est très important."

"Now… what are _you_ saying?" asked Tony again, digging her lightly in the ribs, hating to be kept in the dark.

"Asking him if he can take us into town," she translated again, wincing at the contact to her ribs, no matter how light it was. Tony gave her an apologetic look in response.

"Oui, venir ici," replied the driver with a nod and a smile, gesturing to the seats alongside him.

Tony exhaled with exuberated relief and grinned, following Ziva as she gratefully made her way around to the other side of the truck. They clambered into the seats, which provided Tony with an excellent excuse to loll senselessly back against the cushioning and sigh in exhaustion.

The truck accelerated and trundled on down the ice road, taking the turns a little slower to avoid planning across the frost.

"You better tell him to watch out for any _zebus_," said Tony in a whisper, earning himself a half-hearted elbow to the ribs by Ziva, who was also half-resting against the cushioning.

The drive was silent and peaceful at first, and it was not until Ziva noticed blaring headlights behind them that she opened her eyes, stretched, and wearily turned around to survey their pursuer.

After a moment of solid staring, Ziva felt her gut beginning to churn and an iciness slithering into her stomach. She recognised the semi-trailer tailing them.

"Tony!" she hissed vehemently, causing him to open one eye and give her a sidelong glance. "Look behind us."

"_Eh?"_ he replied indifferently, but nevertheless stretched and allowed a shrewd, effortless glance over the back seat.

It took him a moment to register, but he immediately stiffened and sat upright as recognition set in.

"Oh crap," he hissed incisively, a note of fear lacing his voice. "_Wait_, it's okay, it's _alright_, because she doesn't know we're in he-"

_Bang!_

An ear-bursting shatter caused all three occupants of the truck to duck in surprise as the back window of the truck exploded, the bullet ricocheting off the back of the steel bar near the window to skitter across the floor.

"-Okay!" hissed Tony, anger and panic creeping into his voice, his eyes widening. "Maybe she _does _know we're in here!"

"_Pourquoi cette personne tirer sur nous!" _said the driver, swerving in panic before steadying his hand, his voice shrill and hysterical as he drove.

"What did he say?" asked Tony impatiently with a sidelong glance at the French man.

"He said we're being shot at!" translated Ziva briskly in reply.

"Well, _no shit!_"

_Bang!_

_Thud!_ Tony flinched as he was showered in a fine sheen of blood and Ziva let loose a shrill howl of pain beside him.

In slow motion, he turned, gazing in horror at the scenario unfolding in such a macabre fashion before him. A bullet had passed clean through Ziva's body- entering from just outside her shoulder blade at the back, exiting from the front just underneath her shoulder.

She gasped, mouth agape, and sat there for a moment in a choked shock, time standing still, the blood slowly seeping from the gaping wound and then with steadily more volume, beginning to pour openly. She could only stare at herself for a moment, and then she visibly gritted her teeth, her body beginning to tremble.

"Ziva! No! No! _Ziva!_"

Tony twisted entirely and gently seized his partner, pressing his hands down on the bullet wound, attempting to stifle the flow of the blood.

She was conscious, coughing, eyes glazing as she peered at him with a raging passion, her fingers pressing against his arm in an unspoken thank-you for all that he had done.

_Bang!_

This time the blood sprayed out across the wind shield. Their panicking driver slumped immediately into the seat, a bullet hole carved neatly through his skull, much in the way of Kate and Ari so long ago.

Tony let out a strangled yelp in surprise and allowed a brief moment to duck down for cover. Cyrielle had shot Ziva and the driver with precision accuracy- it wasn't hard to guess who was next on her hit list.

This bitch was_ really_ pissing him off. If she wanted some real devastation, Tony was all too happy to give it to her.

"Hang tight, Ziva," said Tony tenderly but with a resilient edge to his voice as he lunged for the steering wheel. Now, it was all or nothing.

Drawing on his best _Paul Walker_ moves, Tony hauled on the wheel with his entire weight, causing the van to spin 120 degrees to the right, a la _'Fast and the Furious.'_

There was a brief pause as metal grated on metal- the nose of the van caught the flank of the semi-trailer and pushed it off course. Tony got the great satisfaction of seeing Cyrielle's expression contorted in fury as both vehicles went skidding off the ice-laden road, spinning ominously towards the towering trees.

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

It was ungodly for a rural Canadian police station to be buzzing with activity at this inane hour. It was… what, 4:30AM? Something like that. But then, it wasn't often that they received visits from Federal authorities in this part of the state. Particularly not ones that were so 'high priority.'

They had two missing federal agents floundering around in the snow somewhere in the region, which wasn't a nice thing to contemplate.

In these parts, it wasn't uncommon to see bears, gray wolves, all manner of venomous snakes and spiders, even cougars. To be sure, nobody fancied those two poor stranded souls. Probably dying, if they weren't dead already. Mother Nature did away with all but the most adaptable of survivors.

But these three… were adamant that the pursuit went on, no matter the hour. Special Agents Gibbs and McGee, and their guest Abigail Sciuto, who had apparently taken time off as their forensics specialist to assist with the search.

But now they sat in the small office area just adjacent to the lobby, looking tired and shaken but overall, determined. Nobody dared reject the thought of such an early search.

"Can't believe I'm in _Quebec,_" mused Abby to herself, a sheet draped around her shoulders and hot chocolate in hand, eyes slightly red for lack of sleep.

"The circumstances aren't great, but still. It's so _weird_ to hear everybody speaking a different language," she noted with a grin.

"Now you know how I feel whenever you and McGee go into one of your technical jargon speeches, Abby," replied Gibbs with an air of patience as he sat with a clipboard in hand, observing the maps of the nearby area.

"That's not a language barrier, that's just your technical retardism, Gibbs," she replied good-naturedly, earning herself a raise-browed look from Gibbs and a very cautious glance from McGee.

"Because… you… have way better things to do with your time than to listen to geek speak, naturally," she finished hurriedly without missing a beat.

Gibbs gave her a partially amused, rueful smile and Abby beamed broadly back at him.

"So, things are looking good, right? It's been like, what, six or seven days or whatever. That's survivable. You know only about 26 people die a year by dog bites? And statistically, none of them are from wolves. So that rules out the wolves, right? Death by wolf is an impossibility."

McGee gnawed on his lip with a little consternation a brief glance, which she met with fiery audaciousness.

"How long have the rescue helicopters been circling, McGee?" she asked testily.

"Since yesterday afternoon," he replied in response.

"So that only gave them, like, three hours of light to work with," she reasoned briskly. There was a tone in her voice that was shaky, as if she was saying this to convince herself rather than the two older men. If anything, she sounded profoundly distressed underneath all that forced enthusiasm.

"…and the helicopters have a very poor chance of finding people in the dark, if any at all. So when they start searching again, in the morning, the chances are… that they'll find them. Area isn't that big. They can't have travelled that far."

Abby paused and lapsed into silence, gingerly scratching at her own palms and gnawing at her lip, staring down at the ground.

After a while she began to shake briskly and Gibbs extended a hand to rest on her knee.

"Don't worry, Abs. We'll find them."

The younger forensics expert burst into a sob and promptly threw herself into the grey-haired agent's arms, shaking with a ferocity, tears causing her eyeliner to run down her cheeks and stain her alabaster skin.

"I just needed to hear it. That's all."

There was a whistle of snow and wind behind them as the office door flew open, causing a gale to briefly collide against their skin, making them shiver in unison.

Abby drew back and wiped her eyes. None of them really paid any attention to the pandemonium roaring behind them until the fierce and very familiar masculine voice barked its way across the office.

"I don't give a damn if you don't _comprendre_, for god's sake, get me somebody who speaks English!"

There was an electric pause, and then, all three agents whirled in tandem, disbelief evident, to appraise the intruder.

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo stood at the front desk, eyes bloodshot, blood smeared across his jaw and chest and splattered across his face as if he'd been in the way of a gunshot blowback. His hands were bruised and bleeding as if they'd been brutally skinned down to his flesh.

One leg looked completely savaged, skin missing from mid-calf down to his heel. His hair was dishevelled, exhaustion so ingrained into his face he looked as if he'd just survived the holocaust. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

To his left he supported a familiar dark-haired woman who looked, if possible, even worse. Her clothes were soaked with blood, from shoulder to midriff.

Three parallel gashes lined her inner jaw, and a gunshot wound ran through underneath her shoulder clean through her black. Ziva was conscious, but her eyes were glazed, and she gazed across the office directly into Gibbs's eyes, almost unseeing.

"Listen, we've just been hunted through the woods by some blonde Nazi called Cyrielle. About five eight, blonde, a real bitch, lives in the cabin out back... _Sprekken?_ No? Call me an ambulance, _dammit_, and get me a satellite phone, I need to call my boss…"

Gibbs launched himself to his feet, McGee and Abby hot on his tail as he strode to the window parallel to the one where the Senior Field Agent was furiously addressing the attendant.

"DiNozzo?" barked Gibbs vociferously across the office, incredulous. McGee and Abby stared at them both, their faces betraying their mixed delight, horror and relief.

Tony jolted, physically convulsing, and had to fight to keep a hold of Ziva. He was supporting both her weight and his on his mangled legs, and after such a long walk on foot, he wasn't sure that he could physically stand for much longer.

Tony blinked several times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"Uuuhh…Boss?" replied Tony dimly, swaying on the spot, blinking profusely to clear his vision. He took a tentative step towards his team.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Abby sprinting to meet him. Just as his knees felt as if they were going to give way, he felt her sturdy weight supporting him on her shoulder. He gratefully laced his arms around her.

"S…Sorry for taking the light plane, Boss," exhaled Tony with feeble guilt as his head dropped onto his chest, both McGee and Abby holding him up as he fought to keep his own consciousness, refusing to let Ziva slide out of his grasp.


	10. Her Gilded Cage

**This chapter took a little longer than I expected, sorry bout that, I'm a few days out. Updates might be a little slower now, I'm back at school to bear with me. Not to worry, I'll still try to put out chapters at a decent rate.**

**Thank you reviewers! Once again, you make my day. **

**WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP. D**

**Not many warnings for this chapter. Medical themes I guess and some awful butchering of the French language. xD**

**Chapter Title: Her Gilded Cage (1922)**

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep_.

The heart rate monitor to Tony's left was oddly soothing. After all he'd been forced to go through; it was nice to know that he was still functioning on a basic level.

He'd been half awake for a while now, just listening to that rhythmic beep-beeping, sedated and unable to open his eyes.

But now, as he was becoming more aware, he slowly stirred himself, consciousness flooding back into his body as he re-assessed his position. He was safe, in a hospital, in god knows where. But safe. That was good.

Tony's eyelids flickered open and he cautiously surveyed his environment. From what he could see, he was alone. Well, he didn't know whether that was a good thing or not. Where were Gibbs, McGee and Abby? They were nowhere in sight, which meant they had better places to be, which meant _he_ had better places to be also.

What was he doing rotting in a hospital bed like an invalid?

Tony slowly pulled his arms out from under the hospital bed covers and distastefully pulled the electrodes and IV from his wrists. The cardiac monitor weakened significantly, but continued to beep-beep hesitantly alongside him, and Tony wryly sat up in his bed, quickly bringing his fingers to his head to check how his hair was going.

Dismally… but that didn't matter. He could fix that later.

With a grunt, he reached under the blankets and pulled the electrodes from his ankles, and the heart monitor gave one last stubborn_ 'beep beep'_ before flat-lining.

With that, he pulled his aching legs from out of the blanket covers. His savaged leg had been bandaged thoroughly from his ankle to just below his knee, and both feet were completely bandaged, numb and sore. They were prickling a little, too.

His hands had been wrapped in some weird kind of fuzzy medical tape. He was tempted to rip it off, but he vividly recalled that his hands had been weeping and bleeding earlier and he didn't want to risk opening up the geyser.

He propped himself against the steel head of the bed and swung his feet out, easing himself off the mattress onto his shuddering legs. His feet felt strange, like they didn't want to hold his weight, his toes prickling and the balls of his foot stinging as if he'd been bitten.

It probably had something to do with the ten tons of bandage wrapped around them. Damn it.

Someone had finally reacted to the flat-lining cardiac monitor- footsteps broke out of the mundane buzzing of the activity in the hallway, and a middle-aged man stepped into the room. He looked around mid-fifties, graying at the temples, slim and healthy looking with an intelligent look in his eyes.

Tony immediately identified him as a doctor; with that white coat and that buoyantly smug expression, he half expected him to whip out some suspenders and start rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"What's up, doc?" said Tony, deciding to refrain from using a _'Bugs Bunny'_ accent. He still had some semblance of dignity to protect. The doctor took one look at the disconnected tubes and electrodes and visibly relaxed- his patient wasn't going into cardiac arrest, he was just another of the many thirty-something smartasses that acted like they owned the hospital.

"Sit down, sir," the doctor told him sternly with a briefly glance towards his heavily bandaged feet and calf.

"Nah, it's fine," replied Tony offhandedly with a brief wave of his bandaged fingers as if it wasn't an issue.

"I must insist, Agent DiNozzo. It's rather important. If you walk on your feet at the moment, there is a distinct possibility that you may lose them."

Tony's face visibly fell and he stared up at the doctor for a moment with unabashed horror, searching for some sign of jest. He half expected the man to guffaw _'pshaaw, just kiddin'!'_ and then lapse into hysterical hill-billy laughter. But alas, the doctor merely stood there and gazed intensely into Tony's green eyes without flinching.

"You're shitting me, right?" replied Tony, aghast, before gazing forlornly down at his throbbing feet.

"I'm afraid not, young man. Get back into bed, and I will elaborate."

Tony took another few moments to stare in horror, and then nodded numbly. Now with infinite tenderness, he hobbled back to the bed, attempting to put as little strain as possible on his feet. As soon as he was safely back on the mattress, the doctor swooped over and promptly appraised the mess he'd made. Tony had snapped his saline drip in two, disconnected all his cardiac electrodes and completely knotted the IV.

The doctor shook his head wearily and then commenced disentangling them, replacing the saline tube, and then carefully re-attached the electrodes and various drips to Tony's arm. Tony felt like a lab rat, but decided it best not to argue.

"How are you feeling?" asked the doctor in a rumbling voice, striding over to Tony's bedside, briefly wrenching his gaze away to stare down at a clipboard.

"Uh, peachy," replied Tony with a perturbed blink. It was a little surreal being asked how he was, after being hunted like wild game through the Canadian wilderness by a 5'8 blonde psychopath.

"You are progressing well," said the doctor with a brief glance at Tony's cardiac monitor, which was merrily 'beeping' away again as the electrodes had been re-connected moments earlier.

"You were chronically dehydrated when we brought you in here, Tony. How long has it been since you've had any water?" asked the Doctor.

Tony scratched his head a little sheepishly and then thought back to the previous few days.

"Erm, well, we were sort of surviving on hardened snow. There wasn't any fresh running water handy, you know."

The doctor nodded knowingly and Tony got the impression that he was inwardly being 'tsked.'

"An unfortunate urban myth, young man. Eating snow tends to dehydrate the body rather than revigorate it. But never mind that- you have reacted well to electrolyte treatment, so that's no longer an issue."

"Hurrah," said Tony dryly, addressing the man with a quirked brow. Dehydration wasn't really number one on his list of worries at the moment. The doctor didn't seem to notice- he plunged on relentlessly.

"You went into mild Cardiogenic Shock, probably a joint result of the stress you've endured and the previous Y. Pestis… Pneumonic Plague, yes, in the lungs? Your X-rays show that it caused contusio cordis, which explains the shock itself… a little peculiar for a pneumonic condition to affect the heart, but I suppose that it did cause significant damage to the respiratory system and the walls of your lungs, so it's not that hard to imagine…"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, doc," interrupted Tony good-naturedly in the same manner he might cut short Abby or McGee in one of their little computer monologues. Thinking of them caused his gut to drop a little as if he'd just descended rather rapidly.

Where the hell were they?

"Ah, yes, of course," answered the man with a sheepish smile before continuing.

"Your hands were savaged, but as far as we can tell the damage is purely superficial. There is no nerve damage there- nor in your leg, which was also attacked rather… viciously."

The doctor paused for a moment and took a deep breath which Tony took to mean that there was some bad news about to be delivered.

"The main concern, Agent DiNozzo, is your feet. They were not adequately protected from the cold, and were wet for a majority of the time in the elements. I'm afraid you have developed the initial stages of Frostbite in the furthermore extremities of your feet."

"'_Furthermost extremities'_?" repeated Tony a little incredulously with a raised brow.

The doctor chuckled ruefully and shrugged in a 'touche' sort of manner.

"I guess I can get a little carried away with the medical terminology. My apologies."

"So, is it bad?" asked Tony a little apprehensively, his bandaged hands drumming futilely on his belly. "The frostbite, I mean."

"No. The good news is that it's treatable. We literally need to 'thaw' out your toes, and you should make a complete recovery. The important thing is that you don't walk for a while- Frostbite causes ice to form between your muscle sinew, which means that every time you take a step, you are literally stabbing your feet with millions of tiny little sharp knives."

Tony had the chagrin to look disturbed, but vivid memories of Ziva dripping blood all over him bobbed into his mind's eye and his expression quickly turned to one of concern.

"_Ziva!_ Oh shit, what happened to Ziva?! Where is she? Is she alright?"

The doctor's face darkened a moment before he managed to gain control of his features and Tony stiffened, tensed, against his mattress.

The doctor sighed and chanced a glance back at Tony's cardiac monitor as if it might distract him. It didn't- Tony stared at him intensely until he had no choice but to reply.

"Agent David is stable," he replied stiffly, as if that was meant to console a heavily apprehensive Tony.

"Stable? What do you mean, stable? Wasn't she always stable? Where is she?"

There was an awkward pause.

"At the moment- intensive care," replied the doctor hesitantly, fully aware that his irate patient would not be put off.

"Intensive_…_!_ Intensive Care?_ Why? What's happening to her?"

"She's lost a significant amount of blood over the last few days, as I'm sure you are aware. She's entered the progressive stage of Hypovolaemic shock, and stage 2 of chronic Hypothermia."

"What, what? Hypothermia? Hypovol-what?" Tony shook his head so violently he was almost expecting it to spin completely around, like the girl off 'the Exorcist.' Hopefully he wouldn't projectile vomit… the doctor probably wouldn't be too hot for that.

The doctor paused.

"Hypovolaemic shock, Tony, a combination of exhaustion and blood loss. An infection to the wounds on her chest sped it all up. Basically- she's lost too much blood too quickly and her body is overcompensating. Shock makes a person hyperventilate, to get rid of the Carbon Dioxide buildup. The problem is, Hypothermia _slows breathing down_. So she had one ailment telling her to breathe quickly, another telling her to breathe slowly. Do the math."

"What do you mean, _the math?_ I'm not a doctor, don't patronize me," snapped Tony acidly, his knuckles white as he clasped the edges of the mattress. The doctor met his eyes sharply but Tony didn't quail in the slightest.

The man sighed in resignation and ran his fingers through his graying hair, teeth clenched and a muscle in his jaw throbbing warily.

"Her lungs have shut down, Tony," he said in a softer voice, causing Tony's eyes to flutter wide open. He pushed himself to the side of the mattress and stiffly tugged out the IV and the electrodes again.

"Okay, okay, enough, get me some crutches, damn it," growled Tony gruffly.

The doctor seemed to realize he'd revealed a little too much and stepped forward swiftly in an effort to stop him disconnecting the apparatus. Too late.

"I can't allow you to do that, Tony," he said sternly in response, bringing himself up to stand at his full height, as if using his patient's first name might defuse the situation.

In response, Tony promptly slid off the bed, eased himself onto his feet, and stood straight, staring the man in the eye. At 6'2, Tony was an impressive height, and the bandages easily added another inch to his stature. He dwarfed the doctor easily.

"Here's the thing," answered Tony offhandedly, barely batting an eyelid. "Either you go get me some crutches so I can wait outside Ziva's ward with the rest of my team, or I will haul my frostbitten ass out there and sign the release papers myself."

There was an electric silence in which they stood toe-to-toe. Tony could see the man hovering indecisively- it was evident in his eyes that he acknowledged Tony's hardiness.

After a long moment, he quivered peculiarly and then nodded with a bitter stiffness.

"Okay, okay, I'll get you crutches. Just promise me you'll be back in your bed before dark, you put as little weight as possible on your feet, and you try and spend the remainder of your time sitting. You hear me? The frostnip isn't that bad, but you can easily damage your muscles if you are careless. I don't want to amputate."

"Loud and clear, doc," replied Tony obligingly with a polite nod. "Now, go get me those crutches before I ride the bed out of here."

The older man bristled as if he'd just been chastised like a child, but decided against arguing with his lofty patient and turned abruptly, stalking out of the room without another word.

Evidently the doctor thought himself far too important to play delivery boy to an authoritative patient- instead; a matronly nurse waddled in on plump legs not long afterwards sporting two crutches that were evidently far too large for her.

Tony couldn't help but smile whimsically as she struggled with the oversized devices and plopped them against his bed, looking flustered, then smoothed down her blouse and tottered out, scarcely sparing Tony a glance.

Tony was a little bit impatient now, but certainly not careless. He wasn't a huge fan of his doctor, but he wasn't going to act like a complete ass just to spite him. He tenderly gathered the crutches in his arms and then got to his feet, supporting a vast majority of his weight on his arms.

He bore the remainder on his heels, the only part of his foot untainted by frostbite.

The crutches were a little long, but it didn't matter. He awkwardly heaved himself forward, looking like some strange stiff-legged creature, resolutely landing on his heels whenever he needed to swing the crutches out in front of him.

The hospital halls were filled with skittish nurses careening backwards and forth with various medicines and foods; none of them took any notice of Tony gingerly limping his way through the halls. He was tempted to ask for directions, but all he could hear was French, French and more French.

Given that he was almost positive that they'd crashed somewhere in Canada, there was a fairly good chance that they were in Quebec, the only Canadian state with French as the official first language. He'd suspected that long ago, but he'd never really acknowledged the suspicions until now.

It was difficult walking, with both his feet and hands aching. He flinched at every step, as he was forced to hold his weight against his hands. As a result, the open abrasions across his palms were being constantly rubbed against the bandages, causing his fingers to instinctively flex.

A sign hanging from a corridor branching off from the main hall caught his attention, and he squinted uneasily at the sign in an attempt to decipher the foreign words.

**Hôpital Général de Montréal**

_**CHIRURGIE GENERALE**_

**1. TRAUMATOLOGIE CLINIQUE DE**

**2. BARIATRIQUE CLINIQUE DE CHIRURGIE**

**3. SEIN CLINIQUE DU **

He snorted ruefully. The only thing he understood was 'Clinic,' 'Hospital,' and 'Montreal.' Everything else was an indecipherable blur.

However, on closer inspection, a much smaller and more discreet notice hung from below, obviously catering to Montreal's broad range of international tourism.

**Montreal General Hospital**

**_General Surgery_ **

**1. Trauma & Intensive Care**

**2. ****General Surgery**

**3. Bariatric Surgery**

"Yahtzee!" crowed Tony aloud, momentarily stumbling as one of his crutches skittered across the linen in his excitement.

Tony looked to his left- a young French woman was staring at him with an expression of amused incredulity. Tony grinned sheepishly and then bobbed his head, acting as if he'd simply been humming, correcting his stance and leaning against his remaining crutch, peering at the woman almost predatorily.

"_L'escargot rouge couché avec la charmante cinéma chien_," purred Tony to the woman, wiggling his brow with a charismatic smirk. She stiffened, her expression bewildered, and trying hard to stifle her laughter.

Tony didn't know exactly what he'd said, but he had a funny feeling it had something to do with charming snails and a cinema dog.

He continued on down the hall, leaving the unknown woman to giggle feverishly to herself. It was all well and good to have some fun, but he had a team to find, after all.

It wasn't long before he spotted them- all standing in a group around the 'Trauma & Intensive Care' ward, gazing into half glazed windows at what Tony assumed was Ziva's bed.

_Ducky was there!_

Ducky hadn't been there before. He must have flown out while Tony had been 'incarcerated,' per se, in his hospital bed.

He picked up his pace, swinging himself forward and attempting to balance himself on his heels while keeping the ball of his foot off the ground.

Unfortunately, he misjudged his own momentum and moved a little too quickly- the crutches skidded out from underneath him and he crashed to his knees, gritting his teeth and riding out the sudden pain that lanced up his injured calf.

All five of them turned at once, but it was Abby who reacted first.

"Oh my god, Tony!" she yelped in sympathy, lunging forward to tenderly grasp at his arm, gathering his crutches and helping him to his feet.

"No biggie, I'm fine," said Tony, slowly rising to his feet. He was hurting, but that was to be expected and he swiftly shrugged it off.

"You look like crap," she said compassionately, leaning back and brushing him down (he was wearing a hospital gown- not very dignifying, but at least it wasn't one of those half-gowns that only covered the front. He maintained some semblance of dignity.)

"No offence, of course," she continued swiftly, green eyes widening as if she'd just said something horrible. "I'd look like shit too if I'd gone through everything that you did. Well actually, I'd look more like a dead person than shit, because you know… I'd be dead. Maybe I should be saying you look like a dead person? Not that you're dying! Because you're clearly not dying… Oh my _god_, you aren't dying, are you?!" she finished, voice steadily rising in octaves as she continued until Tony was forced to shake her gently to silence her.

"Shush, Abs! I'm not dying. I swear."

"Thank god," she breathed thankfully, hands sliding away from his torso.

"I might lose my feet if I'm not careful, though," he added swiftly, rekindling the sudden horror in her eyes. Maybe it was macabre, but a part of him liked seeing that tumultuous worry on the expressions of his teammates. "Eheh…"

"DiNozzo!" barked Gibbs, breaking up their little interlude with a stern glance, prowling over with an expression that clearly betrayed his relief, much as he tried to hide it. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Standing in a hospital ward boss!" barked Tony habitually, though he realized moments later that it probably wasn't the answer Gibbs wanted and quickly attempted to correct himself.

"... Talking to you… boss!"

No, that didn't sound right, either. He paused thoughtfully.

... er... I don't know, boss?" he finished hesitantly, really quite unsure about what he was doing wrong.

"I _mean_, what are you doing _out of bed?_ You should be resting, not teetering around the hospital. They'll think you've escaped from the mental ward."

"He's right, dear boy," piped up Ducky moments later from Gibbs's right, eyes brightening considerably as he stepped forward to address the younger agent. "About the bed rest, of course. A man in your condition certainly should _not _be on the move!"

"The doctor let me," replied Tony defensively, drawing his crutches in towards his flanks with an expression of guarded testiness. "Besides, I was _hungry_."

It was a valid point, too. Tony had been surviving on pitiful rations of pemmican and candy bars for the last few days.

"Uh, do you want me to get you anything, Tony?" asked McGee from Abby's left. Tony paused momentarily to consider this but it didn't take him long to answer.

"At the moment, all I want to do is get some McNuggets from McDonalds, McGee," said Tony wearily. He'd been fantasizing about chicken and sweet-n-sour sauce for days now.

"Make sure you don't McCrash on the McWay," replied Abby drily with a broad grin, earning herself a clout to the shoulder by McGee. "…That would be a McTragedy."

McGee and Abby quickly indulged in a kafuffle involving several feathery punches and a few pinches before they settled down, glaring impishly at eachother.

The reason for Tony's rampage out of the bed came to a fore and he stiffened, staring hesitantly into the ward. Both beds were protected from view by curtains.

"How's Ziva?" he asked quietly, the jovialness swiftly fading from his voice.

Abby and McGee quickly exchanged a glance- Gibbs's expression hardened and Ducky looked a little morose.

"She is fighting, Anthony," said Dr. Mallard after a long silence. "The doctors have informed us that she is conscious, but alas, her lungs still don't seem to be working by themselves. Not to worry, of course."

"Can we see her?" he asked quickly, eyes brightening. "If she's conscious?"

"When they finish with her," growled Gibbs in response, jerking his thumb back at the curtain which occasionally jerked when a doctor passed by it, evidently fiddling with the machinery.

The doctors had told them that she'd be ready for visitors shortly, but stressed the fact that she would not be able to speak to them. They were there for emotional support _only_, and only _briefly_, because if she lapsed back into a comatose state it wasn't likely she was going to wake up for a long time.

Tony nodded tersely and all five of them waited in silence for a while, with Abby occasionally giving Tony's arm an encouraging pat as he resolutely balanced his weight on his heels, refusing to yield to the urge to roll back onto the entirety of his foot.

It wasn't too long before a young female doctor stepped out of the ward and addressed them, hands in pockets, her English accompanied with a throaty French purr.

"Monsieur Gibbs?" she asked, speaking directly to the older grey-haired agent directly. "Providing you do not excite her, you may visit Ms. David now."

"_Daaah- veeeed,"_ corrected Tony in a tired drawl as he loftily hopped past her on his crutches, eager to see the woman that he'd just so recently gone through so much with.

They trickled in single file, Gibbs first, followed by Tony, then Abby, McGee, and finally Ducky. Immediately they lapsed into that tender silence that often comes about in hospitals when the air is thick with anesthetic and disinfectant, and the pressure for silence is immense.

Tony paused just in front of the curtains, took a breath, pushed aside the cloth with one crutch and stepped in.

Ziva lay in the bed, no longer covered in blood but instead swathed in a whiteness that Tony had not seen from her in a very long time. Her lips were blue and she was covered in blankets, with only her head and wrists above the covers, electrodes and IV tubes connected as they had been with Tony not long before.

Gibbs stood alongside her, observantly looking down into her eyes. He looked a little pale himself, relieved, guilty even, but it was all very strictly hidden behind that impenetrable mask.

There was a large, noisy machine at Ziva's bedside. Every few seconds it would make a loud, mechanic sound and Ziva's chest would rise violently, forcibly pumped with oxygen.

A tube had been inserted directly down Ziva's throat, leading down her trachea to the base of her windpipe. She looked uncomfortable and the artificialness of her breathing was poignant and horrible to watch.

Tony heard Abby gasp quietly to herself at the sight, and McGee tenderly put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Gibbs edged quietly to Ziva's bedside. Silence ensued for several minutes.

"You did good, Ziva," Gibbs told her quietly after a long period of simple staring, meeting her half-lidded brown eyes with an affable tension. He swallowed, obviously with words to say but no initiative to say them.

"At least this time you didn't take out a cow," added Tony quietly from behind him with a tone of mock deference, cocking his head and sending a concerned smile her way.

It was only slight, but Ziva's lips turned up at the sides into a very weak smile and she blinked sluggishly, her eyes slowly progressing to settle on Tony's face. He quirked both eyebrows at her but there was a tense grin on his face, forced, attempting to make light of the situation.

Then, her lips started to move and her fingers jerked, arms shifting- all five of them stiffened, tense.

She groaned, as if attempting to speak. She looked frustrated, and despite her paleness and her glazed eyes there was a fire raging in her expression that refused to die.

"Don't talk, my dear," said Ducky from the bottom of the bed as she coughed viciously against the ventilator, obviously attempting to speak despite the tube inserted down her windpipe.

She made several more attempts to choke out words, head feebly thrashing back and forth in an attempt to move the pipe, before exasperation got the better of her.

None of them realized what she was doing until she'd done it. She brought a hand to her mouth, seized the pipe, threw back her head until her neck was completely elongated and tugged the respirator out of her throat with a hacking cough and a savage growl.

She tossed the ventilator tube aside, fingers twitching against the pipe. The ventilating machine began to make a shrill beeping noise, obviously alerting the doctors of the patient's plight.

"_Tony,"_ she coughed in a strangled snarl, attempting to articulate something but evidently unable to draw any more breath to do so.

Her lungs refused to function and she lay on the bed, mouth agape, visibly shuddering as she attempted to force her lungs into inhaling for her.

Ducky yelled out but they were already being shoved aside by doctors, carelessly pushing through, yelling out random snippets of French to each other and ushering them away from the laboring woman's bedside.

Abby began to sob quietly to herself as they backed out of the ward, Ziva gasping for breath on her hospital bed, Tony's crutches scratching for purchase on the cold ground.

He wanted someone to explain. Somebody to tell him what was happening, that it was normal; that he shouldn't be afraid.

All he was given by way of comfort was the steady _'beep!-beep!'_ of the cardiac monitor, that god awful huffing of the artificial ventilator and the strangled growls of a woman fighting desperately to survive.


	11. From Nurse To Worse

**I AM SO SORRY.**

**I know you hate me, but suck it up, at least you have a chapter now, nerny nerny.**

**Intermission chapter. Next one has more action, beliiiieve me. This is why it's about 1000 words shorter than most other chapters. Im sorry. Im a horrible person. At least I bothered to update at all, though, right?**

**I know, you loathe me for taking to long. Go ahead, give me your hate. ;D –opens arms-**

**Chapter Title: From Nurse To Worse (1940)**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Crunch. Crunch.

"Snow," growled McGee restlessly to himself, balancing awkwardly on one leg and kicking out the other to rid himself of the cold, wet, white ice that clung like a leech to his pant leg.

He was sick of Montreal, sick of Canada. Sure, it was pretty. Yeah, the French was something new. Okay, the food was good. But damn it, give him a nice McDonalds latte and his trusty laptop any day of the week. The snow was driving him insane, the cold was gnawing through his gloved hands like frostbite, and he had been forced to catch a plane back to the middle of nowhere, chasing up a lead that should have been followed hours and hours ago.

"I think that's it," said Gibbs to McGee's left, voice hoarse, more due to the uncomfortable cold than sickness.

McGee peered through the slowly falling snow, following Gibbs's line of sight.

Through the blanket of sleet, there came the indistinct form of a wooden shack- or a cabin. The wood looked old but stout, like it was more than apt to standing up to the blizzards that constantly battered it.

On the front porch was an industrial sized freezer (peculiar, given the climate) and there was a large awning hanging over the side of the house, with heavy tire marks still engraved into the snow. A makeshift car-shelter.

"No car in the garage," muttered Gibbs, brows furrowing. It was to be expected. A recently exposed arms dealer wouldn't be privy to sticking around.

McGee had his gun drawn, but he had the feeling there was nobody here, nothing to be wary of. Nevertheless he edged forward with his eyes wide and all senses alert for anything out of the ordinary.

It didn't take long for things to take a turn for the macabre.

Something brighter caught his eye- a splash of red against the white, and then another. A blood trail, laid out cleanly across the ground, clearly visible despite the newly fallen sheet of snow.

"Boss," said McGee with a brisk flick of his head, indicating the trail.

Gibbs turned to appraise McGee, and then the blood- and his eyes darkened. He wasn't in the mood for any more unwarranted pain, particularly that which was stemming from this case.

Ziva & Tony had both been far too close for his comfort- last thing he wanted, or needed, was a further investigation.

He broke into a brisk amble, following the trail of blood. McGee had his gun drawn and was still facing the cabin, on his six, covering him.

The half-covered carcass swam out of the vast expanse of white, hitting Gibbs's vision like an eyesore.

At first the figure was unrecognizable. Not because of decomposition, purely because of the thickly matted pieces of fur and the snow disguising the creature's defining features. Gibbs edged forward and brushed the snow from the stationary figure, revealing glazed yellowed eyes and bared red fangs.

"It's a dog," said Gibbs gruffly, kneeling to more closely survey the animal.

The beast's expression was frozen into a position of utter malignance, like a real-life hellhound.

He was large, perhaps some type of wolf-cross or a malamute crossbreed. He was all red, red across his muzzle and red across his hind legs and tail, splattered all over with obvious droplets of blood. Whether it was the dog's own, or one of his Special Agents, Gibbs couldn't be sure.

Mambo had died the same way he had lived- a monument of cruelty and fear.

The blood was concentrated around the canine's hind legs and underbelly.

A round, dull red cylinder was lodged in Mambo's inner thigh.

"Didn't Tony say he hit a dog with a flare gun?" asked McGee, wracking his brains for the details of DiNozzo's recount.

"Yeah, I'm guessing this is it," replied Gibbs, huffing steam onto the cold air as he kneeled, before briskly rubbing his palms together and getting to his feet.

"Got blood on his muzzle, I'm guessing thats Tony's. Big dog, too. No wonder he did so much damage."

McGee was still surveying the cabin with a steely resilience. He didn't really expect to see anything at all, because he was almost certain that the woman had left. The idea of a woman getting the better of Tony, and_ Ziva_ of all people was truly terrifying.

Perhaps it was because of the nature of his thoughts that he heard it- but as clear as day there was a sound out of the boreal squall, something beside the whistle of winds and the purr of the freezer engine.

"Uggghhhhhh!"

It was a loud, husky moan, feminine but guttural, like a woman in pain.

McGee jerked violently in surprise and raised his gun, eyes searching desperately for the source of the noise.

"See something, McGee?" asked Gibbs, straightening quickly and wheeling to appraise the area, briskly retrieving his SIG from its holster.

"Heard something," he replied in scarcely a mutter, standing stock still for several more moments.

When nothing revealed itself through the snowstorm, McGee crept forward with lingering trepidation, skulking across the face of the house. Gibbs crept at his side without a sound.

The woman's face swam like a ghost out of the storm.

Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips were purple and bleeding, like they'd been eaten away, and her skin was sallow and white. Her blue veins were thick and pronounced, like fine marble, and her hair lay limply across her shoulders, greasy and dull.

At first, McGee thought she was dead.

He fell still and surveyed the horrendous sight with a feeling of building dread.

McGee considered the concept that perhaps this was Cyrielle, Tony and Ziva's antagonist. But it couldn't be- this woman was brunette, not blonde, and she certainly didn't look as cold as Tony had painted her to be.

But then she jerked, her eyes rolled forward and locked on him and her head lolled forward with a guttural moan. A rivulet of dribble ran down over her lips and dripped down her chin, onto the ground.

She was _in_ there.

Her tongue crept back across her lips, revealing bloodied teeth, and her eyes rolled back again, fingers clenching and unclenching desperately at something around her neck.

"H-Hail Mary... Full of... Full of Grace..."

McGee felt shivers run up and down his spine, like he had interrupted something personal and disturbing, like he had just been thrust headfirst into something far too chilling for his morality to comprehend.

Then he found himself moving with conviction, lumbering forward, filled with the intense urge to help the woman, who looked like a tortured soul lying there with scarcely any clothes in the driving, whipping snow.

Gibbs's voice thundered through his subconscious, at first indistinct and ignored and then with greater urgency.

"McGee…. McGee… MCGEE!"

McGee realised his mistake too late. In his haste to get to the injured woman he hadn't looked where he was going. Strung from the metal posts that held up the garage awning and the trees on the opposite side, there was a fine, clear wire, almost invisible against the snow.

He did his best to stop in time but his momentum got the better of him. He dug in his heels and skidded through the frigid ivory ice. His feet lost purchase and he began to fall backwards in a perfect arch, feeling the failure as he fell, his weight landing heavily atop the trip-wire.

He rolled instinctively away from the house, curling to protect his face, because he knew as clearly as day that the blast would come from that direction.

BOOM.

It was like a clap of fiery thunder, louder and more intense than anything out of the movies. Gibbs threw himself to the floor just in time. Fragments of steel and shrapnel blasted through the air and the cabin went up in a roar of flame and the crackles of subsequent explosion.

McGee slammed his fist into the ice in frustration and fury at his own fault. Something was jutting painfully into his back, obstructed only by his bullet-resistant vest, and he could feel fragments of shrapnel buried just above the nape of his neck, stinging like hell. Nothing he couldn't handle.

McGee raised his head and squinted awkwardly, the light thrown off by the crackling flames searing his corneas with that blinding brightness. That horrible feeling of omission gnawed at his spirit.

"Hey! Miss!" called McGee, gallantly rising to his feet though his spine tingled with wave after wave of cataclysmic pain.

She didn't move. With a cruel wave of guilty horror he realized she never would. A long, slender, but inherently deadly piece of steel was embedded in her throat, just above the line of her collarbone, quivering slightly with the unsteadiness of her flesh and the biting viciousness of those fierce winds which jerked it back and forth.

Shit! Shit! He'd killed her!

She was alive, a material witness, and now she was dead, killed by his own stupidity and carelessness, desperation and senseless chivalry. Why hadn't he taken his time? Why hadn't he stopped when Gibbs had first called his name?

"McGee," came the cold, unyielding voice from behind him. McGee turned slowly, expecting accusatory eyes and bared teeth and unabashed scolding. He was going to be fired for this. He knew it.

But instead of anger in Gibbs's eyes, McGee saw only worry. Gibbs was facing the other direction, lines on his face contorted in stern disbelief.

"Looks like there's more of them," said Gibbs quietly, his voice carrying surprisingly far on the cold winds.

The industrial freezer that had been lying on the porch had been blown wide open, revealing bodies upon bodies, blue and stiff and lying across each other in the open snow, leaving them to appraise a scenario that was the epitome of senseless destruction.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The world was warm and comfortable inside Tony's head.

He was dreaming about Washington, about warm Cheese Supreme pizza and cold beer, and a rather busty blonde lesbian with an excellent taste of music, and clothes, or lack thereof.

For some reason the lesbian was trying her hardest to convert Tony to the lesbian way of life, much like a Jehovah's Witness, with books and badges.

Tony was vehemently crying 'look, I'm already a lesbian! I'm telling you, I like women!' and the busty blonde was shaking her head and insisting that he needed to buy a badge to officially declare his preference for the fairer sex.

"Grrr--Wuff!"

Tony was rudely jerked out of his perverse fantasy and had to blink several times before the image of the busty lesbian faded completely from his mind's eye.

He was covered in a hospital blanket, dozing restlessly against the chairs outside Ziva's room, feet submerged in a hot foot bath.

His feet felt better now, warm and safe, and he could wriggle his toes without any of those stabbing pains riding up his legs.

The swelling had gone down, too. But there was something behind his leg, something tugging at him…

There was a dog gnawing at his bandages.

Ahh! Dog!

Despite the fact it was a small dog, perhaps a Yorkshire Terrier or something like that, too many vivid memories of flashing fangs and raised hackles came back in a flood of recent repressed memories of Mambo. Without a thought, Tony panicked, flexed back his leg and promptly punt-kicked the dog cleanly across the hall.

"Aruuuphf!" yelped the dog, spiralling through the air, flailing almost comically and twisting to land on its feet, oddly like a small cat. It skidded on the lino a few yards away, shook himself briskly, and then promptly turning to appraise Tony with dewy dark eyes, accusatory.

Tony widened his eyes, flooded with guilt. A dog! He'd just kicked a dog!

That was almost as bad as driving into a zebu!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" waving his hands in some sort of weird futile gesture.

"It's all too much, Toto!"

The dog sniffed in disgust, turned, and briskly trotted down the hall and out of sight, tail held loftily in the air, leaving Tony sitting there with various overlaying images of lesbians, Jehovah's Witnesses and angry puppies. His mind was a mess, his memories scrambled all over the place. Where the hell was he?

Montreal. Ziva. Rescue. Cyrielle. Plane Crash. The last few days flashed through his mind in reverse and he shook his head briskly, refocusing, concentrating.

Gibbs and McGee had gone back to the sight of the plane crash to investigate Cyrielle's cabin. Ziva was very sick. Abby and Ducky were both here on unpaid leave, much to the Director's distaste. Palmer was now the temporary Medical Examiner and there was a temporary worker in Abby's place. Abby and Ducky were both working from the Hospital's basement, assisting them as Liason in return for leaving NCIS so briskly and so undermanned.

Tony steadied himself and lifted his feet out of the foot bath, dripping warm water across the linoneum. He grunted and shook the blanket off his lap, placing it beside the foot bath before getting to his feet and shaking the excess water off onto the blanket.

No tingles of pain, no numbness, his feet felt good. He didn't want to take any chances however, so with a sigh of resignation he collected his crutches and lifted the weight off his feet and onto the walking aids.

Ziva. He needed to see Ziva.

He turned around and gazed curiously into her ward. Her curtain was drawn.

Last he'd heard, she was stabilized- they'd put her back on the ventilator and ferried the entirety of the team outside and kept them in the dark for hours. It had almost driven Abby insane.

With a grunt, Tony swung forward toward the door, balancing precariously on the wooden crutch. He leant his weight on one and reached out for the door knob, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Not inconspicuously enough, it seemed. Just as he was lithely easing open the door to her room, a overly fat nurse waddled his way with murder in her eyes, chest heaving with her labored breath.

"Can I kkkhelp you?" she asked with such a heavy accent, it was like she'd been lifted right out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. Tony grinned; try as he might to keep a straight face, his amusement crept out onto his features in the form of a sprawling smile.

"Uh, I don't know, _can_ you kkhelp me?" replied Tony, swallowing his smirk at the nurse's expression of offended incredulity.

Whoops. Too far. _Don't piss off the fat nurse, Tony._

"I, was, uh, going to visit Ziva," he added in an attempt to defuse the situation, raising both eyebrows,

"No, you can't!" she snapped briskly in response.

"Since the visit, she kkkhas made three attempts to disconnect her ventilator. No, no, this can not kkhappen. She is strapped down, if she plays with tubes, she will need tracheostomy! You sit down! Silly boy!"

She gave him with a look of disdainful disrespect, her three chins wobbling protuberantly underneath her squat chin, before turning and bustling away again.

Tony wrinkled his nose and waited before she was out of earshot before responding with a scathing, "kkkhag!"

Well, great. So he was stuck here, alone. He couldn't talk to Ziva, because she was fighting with her respirator. Couldn't talk to Ducky or Abby because they were downstairs.

Gibbs and McGee were both on the other side of the state, looking for the blonde bitch. Why was it always the pretty girls who went homicidal? He couldn't remember the last time a fat girl had gone after him with a gun. It would make things so much easier.

Disheartened, he dropped back into his seat and stared wearily at the ceiling.

Vrrrr. Something vibrated against his leg.

A phone. Woah, when was the last time he'd spoken on one of those? It felt like years. Technology seemed almost surreal to him now, after so long without it. Like something out of a Stephen King story.

He felt down in the slat between the chairs and pulled out a battered looking silver cell phone, blinking curiously at the flashing name on the screen.

'Jenny.' He recognised the battered case. This was Ducky's cell.

Tony flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Ducky?" Jenny's voice sounded weary and bemused.

Tony grinned and raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Because I sound like a seventy five year old Scotsman, right?" replied Tony shrewdly. He could almost see Jenny's answering simper on the other end of the line.

"Tony," she replied, a relieved fondness creeping into her voice. "Good to hear you up. Last I heard, you were in bed with hypothermia."

"Yeah. And frostbite, blood shock, a mauled leg, two disfigured hands and something to do with my heart and plague scars. Who's keeping track, though, right?"

Jenny laughed.

"You sound fine to me, Tony."

"That's because I rock the husky sick voice, it makes me sound mature."

He could hear Jenny's controlled exhale, an obvious attempt to stop from chuckling. Tony grinned knowingly.

"Listen, is Ducky there, Tony? It's important."

"No, he's downstairs with Abby," replied Tony slowly, sensing the steeliness of her voice, "but I can take a message. They'll both be back soon."

Jenny paused thoughtfully on the other end. When she spoke, her voice was laced with intent.

"Yeah, actually, you can. I need the team back to D.C. We've identified that Cyrielle woman, and we need you all out of Quebec as soon as possible. Tell Ducky to call me back ASAP. Goodbye, Tony."

Before Tony had the opportunity to reply, the dial-tone whirred in his ear, a gesture that was uncharacteristically like Gibbs.


	12. Circle of Deceit

**Once again, sorry for the wait. I know I'm a cow.**

**If you didn't recognise the woman from the last chapter who got asploded, I suggest you go back and reread the beginning of Chapter 4. For shame, missing my foreshadowing. Haha, oh well, next time I'll try and make it more obvious.**

**Once again, thanks for the support and the REVIEWS. I LOVE YOU REVIEWERS. **

**In particular, ****luvin-the-coffee****… what an awesome review, thank you. It prompted me to finish this chapter, that had been sitting around half-finished for god knows how many weeks. Thanks so much!**

**Blame school, it is the bane of every fifteen year old's spare time. **

**Title: Circle of Deceit (1981)**

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Gibbs had never had a more pleasant journey down to a hospital basement.

For all their faults, he had to admit that the people of Montreal weren't shy when it came to their hospitals. Every passage was decorated with elaborate mechanical openers that beeped and flashed different coloured lights at him as he walked. He wasn't exactly sure what purpose it served, other than the blaring declaration that the hospital administration were a bunch of decorative spendthrifts.

It was getting colder with every step he took, so much so that it was almost akin to being thrust back into the cold wilderness he'd so recently escaped from. The temperature down here was so cold it was almost scalding.

The last door loomed ahead- adorned with morbid bold dark letters, across which was written 'MORGUE,' and then in smaller letters underneath, 'mortuary.'

The door slid open just before he came to a halt before it. A blast of freezing air blasted out to greet him, and he shuddered involuntarily.

A rather pale-looking Ducky turned to appraise him with an expression of weary relief.

"Welcome back, Jethro," he greeted balefully, spreading his arms to indicate the long line of tables covered in white cloth.

"Your entourage precedes you, I'm afraid."

"Canada not cold enough for you already, Duck?" asked Gibbs with another unpleasant shiver, plucking one of the fur-lined coats from the handle on the adjacent wall and pulling it over his shoulders. On second glance, Ducky was wearing one, too. Why was it so goddamn cold down here?

"This is a morgue, not an autopsy room, Jethro. The hospital had to make do. The temperature is kept low so as to stop decomposition. Unfortunately, unlike headquarters, the cold is not restricted to the sliding compartments. Yes."

Ducky pulled up his sleeves and made his way over to the first table. Without any prompting, Jethro followed him.

"How is young Timothy holding up?" asked Ducky, lowering his voice a little and casting a perturbed glance at the sliding doors to ensure they wouldn't be interrupted midway through the conversation.

Gibbs shrugged, expression darkening somewhat.

"He's shaken. Blames himself. That's to be expected, all things considered."

Ducky nodded knowingly, and his gaze returned to the body lying on the table. With a deft flick of his wrist, he pulled back the white cover to reveal a young woman. Gibbs immediately recognised her as the brunette that they'd seen briefly before the explosion. There was still a gaping wound in her neck where the steel had pierced her neck.

"The good news is, Jethro, that had you been able to save this woman, she would not have been able to provide us with any information. In fact, I highly doubt she would have the capacity to string together an intelligible sentence."

"What do you mean?" responded Gibbs slowly.

"Her mind is practically rotten. Yes, unfortunately, she was subject to heavy chemical torture before her tragic demise. Abby has confirmed that she has substantial amounts of chemical agents on her skin and in her nostrils. Clorox, ammonia, various basic cleaners and the like. Common, of course, but they can cause some grievous harm when used like this. Some were a little more illicit, too."

Ducky raised a finger and rummaged on the tray underneath the table, pulling out a familiar dark badge.

"These were found on her person. Clearly the killer didn't particularly care whether or not she was identified."

Gibbs extended his hand and Ducky handed him the badge.

The woman in the photo looked nothing like the one on the table- she was happy and smiling with an intelligent glimmer in her eye. Her hair was styled and her eyes were bright and vibrant, betraying a sassy grin. In fact, she rather resembled Caitlin Todd in a hollow, macabre way.

When Gibbs had first seen her face, her eyes had been glassy and vague, her hair messy, her mouth hanging slack.

"Sarafina Van Aerdan," mumbled Gibbs, eyes scanning down the identification. "Canadian Intelligence, twenty-six years old."

"Yes," affirmed Ducky with a resilient tone to his voice. "Abby ran her name through the database. She went missing some months ago, after flying out to investigate a lead in Quebec. Quite a waste of a good young life."

"At least McGee can get some closure now," muttered Gibbs morosely in response, shaking his head and setting the badge down.

"Well, yes. It's probably for the best, really. Had the woman lived, she'd have been incredibly disturbed, in a near vegetative state. McGee's accident might have been a small mercy for her."

"I'll tell him that," said Gibbs with a curt nod of his head. "Thanks, Duck."

"There's something else," said Ducky sharply, raising his head suddenly with an expression that was suddenly trepidacious.

He drew out a thin set of papers, paper-clipped together, from his inner jacket pocket.

"Director Shepherd faxed this through. She said she wanted it to be handed directly to you."

Gibbs held Ducky's eye contact for a moment, drawing in that single moment the fact that it probably wouldn't be welcome news. With a brief moment of indecision he peeled back the first blank layer of paper to the file below.

The first thing he noticed were the two photos, both of the same woman- in the first, she had darker hair, her hair was styled elegantly back into a bun, dark sunglasses obscuring her eyes. She wore a proud smirk and in the background the broad flank of a jet could be seen.

In the second she looked slightly less manicured, but still beautiful- blonde, with straggles of hair escaping her pony tail, eyes locked directly onto the camera with a fierce expression of fiery apathy.

"This her?" growled Gibbs hoarsely.

"Cyrielle? Apparently so, yes. The Director was not pleased," he continued on, pointing a finger at the list of known aliases.

"Cyrielle Le Blanc," read Gibbs aloud, a peculiar feeling of victorious anger sweeping through his gut at the feeling of having a face to put to the name.

"Liana Van Dam, Rose O'Donnell…. Arms dealer, known in the dealing circuit as the Black Rose… the Black Rose…"

Gibbs's eyes sharply snapped back up to meet Ducky's.

"Where have I heard that name before?" he implored, blue eyes biting into Ducky's, the intensity dimmed by the fact that he was visibly churning at his memory for answers.

"The ARES case," replied the doctor with a sad smile. "She had her horns locked with La Grenouille for some time before he finally won the bidding war. Remember, Jethro? I was, for a time, Charles Harrow."

Recognition and grim realization flickered behind Gibbs's ice blue eyes.

"Her winning bid was just shy of twenty million," stated Gibbs, visibly musing. His eyes briefly broke contact and flickered across the room, gazing at all the other bodies lying on the tables like stiff, pale toy soldiers. Most were missing limbs or various parts of their body due to the explosion.

"I fear her reputation, and she weight of her assets made it easy for her to evade authority for so long," nodded Ducky, following Gibbs's gaze to the lined-up bodies. Gibbs's eyes narrowed.

"She killed all of these people?"

"Well, I assume so, they were all in her freezer," he replied with a frown.

"The interesting thing, Jethro, is that they were all intelligence operatives. All of them. All were reported missing after being assigned on missions in Canada or the USA."

"So she killed them, and kept their bodies, as soon as they got on her trail? Hauled her freezer around wherever she went, like keepsakes, just to cover her tracks? I thought she was just a semi-deranged hermit with an interesting story she didn't want heard. Clearly I was wrong."

"Not entirely. She is certainly a hermit, but more than just a little deranged, with a very elaborate story that she seems to be very intent on keeping her own little secret. This woman is very dangerous, Gibbs, even now. I hate to steal your catch-phrase, but… I can feel it in my gut."

Gibbs gave one last sickened glance to the long row of mangled bodies and nodded.

"So can I."

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Breathe in. Breathe out. What should have been the simplest of tasks was becoming increasingly impossible. Her body had taken bullets, knives, beatings, near drownings, frostbite, scalding burns in the past.

But after such trivial circumstances- a little time in the wild, a few scratches, hypothermia, and her lungs had decided quite promptly to stop working. Without any warning whatsoever.

This pipe down her throat- she hated it with such a passion. The noises it made were so artificial and disgusting- she was revolted at her own invalidity.

So far she'd pulled it out three times, quite positive that _this_ time she'd be able to breathe on her own. How could the most natural thing be so difficult for her? Wasn't Tony the one with the scarred lungs?

Alas, despite her confidence, each time had left her desperately fighting for just one breath. She nurses coddled around her squawking raucously, shoving their god-forsaken pipes down her throat, inadvertently prodding her in the eyes.

After the third time, they'd strapped down her arms to the bedside so that she could do nothing but lie there and struggle, hacking and coughing at her pipe. Occasionally someone would come in there with drugs and she'd buck and struggle in distress, only to be subdued by more sedatives and silly French nurses purring comfort.

"Sorry darling, it will be over soon, once your lungs recover we will take out the ventilator. Just be patient and stop fighting, let your body rest!"

But damn it, she had a case to work on! She had an irate Gibbs stalking the passageways, she was sure of it! And Tony, hobbling around like a battered cripple, still wearing that smug grun and making lewd, inappropriate jokes like always. She could picture it in her minds eye.

It felt like she'd been in here for hours. Ziva lay still, placid from her latest dose of drugs, which dulled the fiery burning pain all over. Negating the throbbing in her chest. Surely it would be over soon. The straps holding her body down were beginning to ache.

The respirator pumped, cold and brittle alongside her bed. Ziva gazed drowsily at the screen, watching in morbid fascination as nonsensical numbers flashed and it beeped with each subsequent pump of oxygen into her lungs.

The door was opening. It was late- early morning probably, a distant voice murmured in the pits of her mind. She felt like she was going crazy, gazing at the walls all day.

A woman walked in, tall and blonde. A nurse.

Ziva blinked apathetically at her.

The woman turned and removed the mask she was wearing with a fake, malignant smile. Recognition flared in Ziva's soul and she bared her teeth like a dog facing an abusing owner. Even through the heavy dose of drugs, she could feel the anger and anxiety blazing clear as day in the pits of her belly.

Cyrielle.

It was Cyrielle. In her ward. Was she dreaming?

"Hello, sweetheart," Cyrielle purred with a savage grin. Like a cat who'd cornered a mouse.

It was! This was far too vivid for simply a hallucination. It was Cyrielle. The woman who had damn near killed her was standing placidly infront of her, dressed as a nurse.

It was a gut-wrenching cliché, really.

Ziva tried to scream, momentarily forgetting the ventilator pipe lodged in her throat. It came back with a wave of nausea- she hacked and coughed, the discomfort causing her eyes and mouth to prickle unpleasantly.

"This is too easy," Cyrielle mused shrewdly with a flippant chuckle, tilting her head.

She stepped over to the powerpoint with an expression of joyful apathy and flicked it off.

The ventilator turned off. Her lifeline was gone. Her wounded lungs burnt savagely.

With a distressed gurgle, Ziva twisted and turned, fighting for air.

Lunging against the pipe, she pulled back and desperately heaved with her lungs, vehement and vicious.

Breath rushed into her lungs through the pipe, a silent victory. Breathing! She was breathing! She could breathe! Her lungs were working!

She tried to scream, but couldn't. Her voice was rendered useless against the pipe. Damn it.

She met Cyrielle's eyes with scalding disdain. _You lose._

The tall blonde looked a little disappointed.

"Oh, well, I suppose there are no easy victories," she replied with a careless shrug and turned, rummaging in the cabinet alongside the bed.

"After all, it would be more fun to toy with you a little, given that you are strapped in a bed and all. The nurses think I've come to take you back to America, back to your little Navy police. Isn't that ironic? I could wheel you out of here and nobody would be the wiser until your boss gets back. In fact, I think I'll do just that."

Cyrielle laughed, tossing her hair back across her shoulder and shaking her head, beautiful and magnificent in her evil.

She was magnetic- and revolting.

"It's an excellent situation, isn't it, Ziva? You're strapped down by the doctors and rendered speechless by that wonderful little pipe. You can wriggle and buck all you like and they'll think you are fighting the respirator."

Deftly, like a professional, Cyrielle disconnected the various heart monitors, turning the switches off at the wall to avoid the tell-tale beeping that would alert any nearby nurses to the absence of a beating heart.

She pulled a needle out of the cabinet. Ziva wasn't close enough to read the label.

Then she turned and took the empty saline drip, and pressed the syringe into the top part, injecting the clear pale liquid directly into the bag, which dripped down the length of the bag and down the pipe, heading directly for Ziva's veins.

Ziva felt the bed moving. Cyrielle was wheeling the respirator alongside, despite the fact that it was turned off, probably just for show.

Then there was light- bright and yellow and harsh against her eyes. Ziva shut her eyes tight and wriggled, attempting to free her arms so she could wrench this fucking pipe out of her throat and scream for help!

"Taking her for the transfer… Ziva David, yes… Papers… Shepherd… Plane… Respirator."

The words flickered in and out of her perception. She was getting drowsy- that was bad. Eager to stay as awake as possible, she gritted her teeth and attempted to keep hold of her awareness.

Cyrielle must have put a sedative into the drip or something, because she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Helpless and angry and desperate she let out one a scream, muffled into utter silence by the useless respirator, her lungs buckling and shuddering with the effort of every laboured breath.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tony woke to a busy, bustling corridor.

He'd fallen asleep on those uncomfortable little seats on the outside of Ziva's room, and had been covered by a blanket sometime in the night by one of the nurses.

Nice of them really, given that he was really a huge pain in the ass for the poor women, garbling their language and blinking flippantly whenever they yelled at him for not understanding their instructions.

He was feeling better. Lots better.

The pain had completely gone from his feet, although they were still a little red, and he could breathe properly without the nausea clawing at his belly with every inhale.

It was really something special that they'd made it through this in one piece. Now all they needed was Ziva's lungs to get up and running and they'd be set to go.

They were being transferred back to D.C in a few days anyway, so that Ziva could finish her recovery there. The Director was getting restless and all that.

He stretched and yawned, the wood of the room window prodding into his back, his jaw aching, head throbbing. What a week.

He jerked slightly as his mobile vibrated against his leg, causing him to blink lethargically down under the blanket. Hah, human contact. It would be weird listening to someone speaking English.

The caller I.D was 'withheld.' Probably one of those asian telemarketers. Did it cost any more for them to call into Quebec? God, he hoped so.

"Helllllooo?" he answered cheerfully as he flipped open the cell.

The answering voice was cold, but just as blithe.

_"Good morning, sunshine."_

Tony jerked savagely like he'd just received an electric shock and deftly leapt to his feet in surprise. He'd recognise that voice anywhere. He could almost picture that penetrating smirk down the phone, that half-mad expression that tainted her pretty face.

"What the hell do you want, you bitch? How did you get my number?"

_"I'm more resourceful than you think I am,"_ Cyrielle replied carelessly down the receiver, clearly enjoying herself. "_Besides, I like to gloat. How was your hospital stay?"_

"Hows your semi-trailer?" he shot back bitingly, at a loss of any other retort.

_"Better than the tree it hit,"_ she replied with a brisk chuckle with there was the sharp injection of venomous anger that flickered and disappeared in her tone.

"_But, to the point. I have somebody here who wants to say hello. That is to say, she wants to, but she most certainly can't. Her lungs are a little sore, and she has a pipe in her throat. Say hello, Ziva."_

There was the rustling of blankets- crackling- an almost inaudible gurgle.

No! No! That could be anyone. Anyone.

Tony wheeled around in a panic, and lounged at the door to the room, disregarding the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. The hinges creaked with the violence of his swing.

He stumbled into the doorway and gazed over at the bed. The cold fear doused him like ice.

There was no bed. There was no bed. Where was the bed? Where was Ziva?

In his shock he'd inadvertently shut the cell phone shut, effectively ending the call.

What did he do? Where was Gibbs? He got back from the wilderness yesterday, he should be here now!

Panic started to overwhelm him and he fought it back. It was becoming increasing difficult.

'_Fear is good. Panic can kill.' _The words were chasing each other around in his head.

He wheeled and ran over to the reception so quickly that his toes began to prickle and the linoleum squealed in protest.

"Ziva!" he half-barked at the startled woman at the desk. "Ziva David! Where is she?! She's not in her room!"

The plump lady blinked and leaned back, shocked and a little offended.

"She's gone..? Signed out last night by a woman for a transfer for DC."

"She wasn't supposed to go!! She wasn't going for another couple of days! Why would you let her go?"

"The woman had the papers, monsieur, signed! Everything was official and in order! Is there a problem?"

Tony swore and slammed his fist into the counter, ignoring the pain, frustration boiling to a fore.

"Hell yes, there's a problem! You've handed her over, gift-wrapped, to a delusional murderer! You may as well have delivered the garnish for afterwards, too! You… You-!"

_Vrrrr. _His phone was vibrating.

He scarcely had time to breathe before it was in his sweating palms and he was fumbling, pushing it open. The voice purred like audible poison in his ear

"_Calm down, Tony. Not good for your blood pressure, you know."_

"Why?" The blood was thundering in his veins, muffled only by the drumming of his heart. "Why!?"

Cyrielle sighed theatrically on the other end of the line, her voice dripping with fake empathy.

"_Because you got away. Because you destroyed my semi-trailer. Because you exploited my comfortable little abode. Because you killed my dog. But first and foremost, because you've royally pissed me off. What a shame you stumbled across me, Tony! As they say, 'in all the pubs in all the world…'"_

"What do you want?"

_"You have half an hour. St George's School on The Boulevard. If I call you and you have anybody else on the phone... well, lets say it won't be pleasant for Ziva. If you bring anybody else with you, I will detonate the explosives wired through the school, killing every student within range. If you contact anybody in the school to initiate a lockdown, everyone dies. Oh, and Tony…"_

"What?" his fear was as loud and evident as a fanfare.

"_Tell the Director I said hello. Tick Tock."_

The dial tone beeped malignantly in his ear, a fitting feeling for the dull numbness spreading like wildfire through his body.


End file.
